I’m a man who appreciates innovation. It doesn’t take
avant-garde insanity to grab my attention, just the gumption to approach things
a little differently. As a writer and avid reader, I especially love books with
an innovative approach. For this particular project, John F.D. Taff can proudly
claim the title of visionary. Inspired by a crude scribble in a public
restroom, Taff eventually decided to assemble a crew of miscreants and madmen
with one goal in mind: each write a novella with the title “I Can Taste the
Blood.” The result? A themed anthology that essentially has no theme at all.
The five stories contained within could not be more disparate from one another,
but they still fit so perfectly well together. Allow me to elaborate a bit.
The first story, by Josh Malerman, succeeds for two main
reasons: 1. It exists outside of the restraints of an era, and 2. It is pretty
goddamned creepy. A slow burn about a man pursued in the desert by a mysterious
fiend that will eventually get under your skin and burrow so deep that you
can’t remove it, not even with tweezers.
J. Daniel Stone is the mastermind behind the next story. If
someone had shown me this story with no author’s name attached to it and told
me it was an unpublished story written by Clive Barker circa The Books of
Blood, I might have believed them (and, just to be clear, that should be
considered a compliment of the highest order). This is not to say the story
relies on sheer pastiche, but it does swim in the same stream as Barker’s early
work. Perverse grotesqueries abound, waxing poetic about the boundaries of film
and art.
Up third is Joe Schwartz. Less horror, more transgressive
crime fiction about bad men doing even worse things. It jumps around in time a
bit, which I can definitely dig. I really loved his style overall and without a
doubt want to read more from him in the future. However, his ending did commit
what I consider to be a cardinal sin in fiction. He almost got away with it,
though, and he probably would have had he pushed it just a little further. A
minor gripe in an otherwise killer story, though. Don’t sweat the small stuff.
Christ? Where do I even start with Erik T. Johnson? A mad
genius? Perhaps. I can’t make a single lick of sense of his story, but that
doesn’t stop me from loving it. I like a good challenge. Imagine Gummo by way
of Beckett and Burroughs and you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark, but also so
far off you might as well be in a different galaxy. Who needs a clear,
traditional plot when the language is this mind-melting, when the entire vibe
of the tale is like a ganon of leeches sucking your soul away? Exhausting in
the best way possible.
The final story is written by the man John F.D. Taff
himself. I’ve been raving about Taff for a while…I really do think he’s one of
the most underrated writers in horror today. He’s been called the “King of
Pain” for good reason. His stories have this way of tapping into the deepest, darkest
canyons of your soul. Terrifying, but with a strong emotional core. No joke…one
of Taff’s stories in his Little Deaths collection actually had me bawling on my
lunch break at work. Though every story in this collection is a standout in its
own way, Taff takes the crown here. This story is a bit more gruesome than his
usual fare. It takes body horror to a new extreme, but never loses the
sensitivity that is ultimately Taff’s brand. I promise, you’ll never think of teeth
and mouths the same again.
I can’t recommend this anthology enough. Grey Matter Press
continues to prove why they are such a strong force in the modern world of
horror literature.
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