The first time I sat down to read this book, I quickly put it back down after the first chapter or so.  And, unfortunately, it took me quite a while to be able to pick it back up.  It opens with a fantastical explanation of how the universe was formed with quirky odds and ends thrown in there to amuse you.  As much as I enjoyed this explanation, this chapter ended and did nothing to grab my interest in the story – I kept reading because I didn’t know what the actual story was about, much less a passing interest in the first chapter.

The quirky odds and ends continue throughout the book, appearing as long-winded tangents, unneeded to the main core of the story, yet they serve to keep you in a lighthearted mood.  However, and more importantly, they also serve to bring you out of the character’s thoughts and into your real world where you ask yourself questions like, “Does this author think this is funny?” “Whose head am I in anyway?” and the much more popular “Doesn’t the laundry need folded?”

The main character, Jaymie is sixteen years old and has the stereotypical “Valley girl” attitude that we all can remember from the 1980’s.  You can feel the blonde radiating off the pages.  Jaymie feels less real and more like a promiscuous caricature of a sixteen year-old girl than any one of the sixteen year-old girls that I know or have known in my lifetime.

The pace of this story alternates between nice and easy-going and a lengthy, drawn-out “my God, will it ever get back on track?” I have a strong suspicion that this book could have used an impartial editor to bring it back on track as the narrator continues to ramble on and on and on at times about things that are not pertinent to the story at hand.

If you’re considering picking this book up, take the time to, at least, read the first chapter or so.  As far as novels go, you could indeed do worse and perhaps your sense of humor is different from mine.  Once you weave through the chaff to get to the wheat, I believe you will find yourself entertained; however the road to separating the two can be long and arduous.

shattered stained glass
through the barricade of pews
the fleshless arms

This collection of short stories is not for anyone squeamish or put off by body fluids.  It is recommended for readers who enjoy variety in their horror or who want to be able to read and finish a story within a short window of time.  These are bite-sized stories with vivid imagery that stays with the reader long after the page has been turned.  Some stories put the characters in a situation and reveal what happens next.  In other stories the situations are created by the characters.

Character-wise, Chris Hivner’s story collection has a little bit of everything such as aliens, angels, demons and vampires.  It also includes the unexpected… changing road signs, living tattoos and thumping corn stalks.  Their motivations vary and the characters don’t always get the outcome they wish.  In fact, the telling of the tale can be downright humorous.

One example is “The Twister”.  Grand Schon is a small town consisting of 27 streets where the residents do the same thing day in and day out.  A twister touches down each year “at the crossroads where prosperity meets despair” to take one of the residents away to an unknown place.  Frank Samples volunteers this particular year with the words, “I may not be the smartest man in the world, but I’m sure as hell gettin’ out of this used up town!” as he travels by foot to the crossroads.  Before long “I may not be the smartest man in the world” becomes a familiar refrain to the reader and can create a snicker or two.

Overall, this was an enjoyable read.

The rising sun squinted over the smoldering skyline, and Jessie raised her head to acknowledge the dawn. There was no accompanying brightness or warmth with the start of a new day, only a lightening of the gray that permeated the world. The city, the streets, the trees, her skin, everything was of ash. Everything but the warm lump of baby cradled in the crook of her arm. Gray-dyed as he was, Aaron still smiled and then color emerged in her world again.

Jessie sat on a chill concrete floor beside a shattered window. Shards of glass littered the floor, some of the remnants as wide as her hand. It would have been safer to lurk nearer the interior of the building, but the dark scared her even more than it used to, and now there were no nightlights. There was also the man, and he rested a room away barricaded behind two thick tables and a metal desk. He had brought some comfort since he found them three days past. She had been weak, her milk supply dwindling. He guided her here, let her eat from his stockpiles of canned foods, and from behind his camouflage of grime he studied her as she strengthened. She didn’t like his eyes. She didn’t like his bunker or his invitations of shared warmth. She didn’t like the world as it had become, but it was still hers.

He saw Meredith poke her head in the work shed and wince at the smell of mercury oxide that hung like a cloud. “John, it’s tea time,” she said and shut the door behind her.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed. He wouldn’t be as behind as he was if it hadn’t been for a hole in the roof that he had to take half a day to repair. If he hadn’t had lost those five or six hours, he thought, perhaps he wouldn’t be scrambling so hard here at the end of the week to get together enough hats to take to market. You see, John was a hatter.

John looked back down at the seam he was working on. He was half done with the stitching, and then this one would be ready for the brim. Carefully, managing to steady the shakiness of his hands, he began stitching along the seam again, pulling the thick thread through the felt. He worked diligently, never looking up despite the pain in his neck and the cramping in his forearms. He sniffed a lot, careful to not let any snot fall from his nose onto the new hat. Snot had a way of not coming out of felt.

His stomach rumbles
and his back is to the action
the giant creaking bed
where the other gnomes are busy
feasting on the human boy.

~*~
Greg Schwartz can be found online at Haiku and Horror.

“I’ve been having really strange dreams.” Melanie said, not looking up. Instead, she played with one of the sugar packets she’d taken out of the small ceramic dish on the diner table. She concentrated hard on folding it as many times as she could without it breaking open, because that gave her an excuse not to look up. If she looked up, she’d have to look Jerrod in the eye. Jerrod, who’d been so quiet the last few weeks. Who practically radiated unhappiness. He can’t break up with me if I don’t look at him, she thought to herself. It’s like magic. It’s like hiding under the covers when monsters come. If I can get him talking about my dreams, or football….

“Melanie, we’ve been seeing each other for quite some time now—” Jerrod started in his slow, methodical voice. Melanie could hear him very carefully picking his words, navigating the issue like a minefield. He was always so careful, so meticulous. He’s meticulously breaking up with me, Melanie thought, and then stifled a manic giggle before it could slip out. She gave herself permission to look up as far as his chest, but stopped there. His policeman’s uniform was spotless and crisply pressed. She wondered if being a cop made a person so careful. “—and there are some things that have come up—” Jerrod plowed on. Under the table, Melanie’s leg started to bounce.

A man in uniform shouted there was no more room. Karl’s father argued with the man, threatened him with his credentials and finally bribed him, and the man said okay, but only one.

Karl’s mother wept and held him tight so he could hardly breathe. He started crying and his sister, too young to understand, cried too. His father, shouting above the angry crowd and the whine of the shuttle engines, told him everything was going to be fine and pushed him toward the man in uniform who was impatient to go. He followed the man to the shuttle, running to keep up, slipping on the oily tarmac as the police struggled to hold the crowd at bay. The people shouted and fought, furious at being left behind, desperate like rats trapped on a doomed ship. He was nine years old.

~*~

The truck lurched to a stop, snatching Karl Baker from his last recollection of Earth.

“Dismount!” yelled the sergeant.

Dusty men in protective suits and battle gear tumbled out.

“Fall in!”

They fell into formation on the road. It was hot. A short distance away were trees and shade, but the men stood sweating in the sun. The MPs stood by.

“Second platoon!” commanded the lieutenant. “At ease.”

The men of Second Platoon, 3rd Penal Company relaxed.

“Listen up,” said the lieutenant. “We’ve been assigned to ‘Actions On the Terminal Objective.’”

The formation responded with an anxious murmur.

“Someone has to do it,” continued the lieutenant. “The responsibility has fallen to us. I know it’s hot, but remember! Once the operation begins you must stay in full protective gear until after decontamination.” He patted the protective mask strapped to his hip. “What’s the cure for Sudden Acute Neuroshock Syndrome?”

“Death, Sir!” came the automatic response.

Lahnee Chee
child of moon and sea
pearl of her father’s eye
gave birth to an orchard
born of precious seeds
from a single Mandarin orange
brought from the homeland afar
dazzling orange fruit
mottled with blushes of red
nutriment-kissed in scarlet dust groves
that saved and sustained the new nation…
a childhood whim turned to gold.

When she passed on
at one hundred and three
all who mourned her
knew what to do
though she’d left no will,
no specific instructions;
In a pearl laden box
they placed her ashes,
in a  scarlet dust orchard
buried deep with love,
beneath dazzling orange fruit
mottled with blushes of red.

~*~
Cathy Buburuz lives and works in Regina, Saskatchewan, a place laughingly referred to as The Great White North because the temperature often falls to 40 degrees below zero. Cathy serves as the editor of Champagne Shivers, Expressions, and the Potter’s Field anthologies. Over the years, she’s enjoyed publication in many fine publications including City Slab: Urban Tales of the Grotesque, Midnight Street, Space and Time Magazine, Sounds of the Night, Aoife’s Kiss, Wicked Karnival, The Modern Art Cave anthology, In the Outposts of Beyond anthology, the Nasty Snips anthology, and Bare Bone. Cathy invites you to check out Champagne Shivers 2008, which is now available in The Genre Mall. To read the table of contents: http://www.genremall.com/zinesr.htm#champagneshivers

Grasping me in acres of coil
The pressure of a thousand arms
Binding me, holding me captive
I struggle to breath as I stand drowning.

I cower and wait for the fangs.

Unable to move, paralyzed
Voodoo venom oozing through my veins
Darkness crashing down on my head
Beating me relentlessly into nothing.

An eternity passes, I’m beyond fighting
Patiently waiting for the moment,
For the finality of release
But my captor will not allow it.

Leaving me lingering on the verge.

Dying from the outside in, losing touch,
I feel the punctures spreading
To encompass the whole of me
There is no antivenin for this god.

~*~
Sarah’s poetry has appeared in Illumen, Beyond Centauri, and several other publications.