Book Review: Gutted by Various Authors, Edited by Doug Murano & D. Alexander Ward

With stories by Clive Barker, John F.D. Taff, Paul Tremblay, and Neil Gaiman, how can you go wrong? You just plain can’t. Add in a few authors who I was somewhat familiar with and a few more I had never even heard of and there’s a lot to love here. Murano and Ward have assembled a collection of what they call “beautiful horror stories.” Other than that, this is not technically a themed anthology. These stories are literary, they are poetic, they deal with themes all humans are familiar with and have been used over and over and over again. Yet—they are all still unique in their own way. As with any anthology, there are some stories that are stronger than others, but thankfully no stinkers.

The strongest story in my opinion is Paul Tremblay’s “A Haunted House Is a Wheel Upon Which Some Are Broken.” It is constructed like a Choose Your Own Adventure story about a girl visiting a house haunted by the ghosts of her past. Depending on how you decide to read it, the story could technically get locked in a forever-long loop, which is the most terrifying element. If I had been in a different state of mind when reading it, I might have still been trapped. Tremblay just has a wonderful style, and he hasn’t disappointed me yet. My second favorite story in the collection is “Picking Splinters” by Brian Kirk, an extremely dark and hopeless tale about a man whose lost daughter is found many years after she went missing. Yowza. I was pretty exhausted after reading that one. Kirk is now on my list of “Authors I Need to Read More Of.”

Style is a big deal in this book, perhaps even more so than plot. Yes, every story has some sort of plot (although some were easier to follow than others), but what’s most important about Gutted is that every writer has a distinct voice and approach to their pieces. They cannot be interchanged, which I think is one of the main keys to being a good writer. No one else can write your story as well as or better than you.

The cover art is pretty great (and appropriate), and each story is accompanied by a black and white Luke Spooner illustration (a man whose work I was definitely familiar with since one of his illustrations preceded a story of mine a few years ago). Nothing more to really say about this one except that you should probably pick up a copy. You know, because it’s real good and all that stuff.

Fiction International #47 "Phobia/Philia" Available for Purchase

Fiction International #47, "Phobia/Philia" is available for purchase. This edition features a piece I wrote called "Chance Addiction." It is not a story in the traditional sense, but rather a strange train of randomness that may or may not make you think on a different wavelength. You can buy this at Amazon now!

http://www.amazon.com/Fiction-International-47-Phobia-Philia/dp/0931362083/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1417491500&sr=8-1&keywords=fiction+international+47

Reading at the Brewyard Saturday November 9th

I'll be doing a reading on November 9th with a few of my fellow MFA peeps (both from the fiction and poetry factions). Here's the address and time:

The Brewyard (this is actually a house)
5256 La Jolla Blvd.
La Jolla, CA 92037

Doors at 6:00 PM, first reader begins at 7:00. After the six featured readers are finished, there will be an Open Mic.

I'll be reading an excerpt from my novel-in-progress. Come check it out if you so desire.

Fiction International #46: Real Time/Virtual Now Available

Fiction International #46: Real Time/Virtual is available for purchase. I edited and co-wrote a collaborative text that was published in this issue. The piece is titled "Art-Making in the Technosphere," and it has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Other writers featured in this text are Andy O'Clancy, Natalie Quave, Randall Lahrman (whose two sections are directly linked to mine), Ryan Forsythe, Jo Ellen Aragon, Carla Wilson, and Francois Bereaud. It's a really interesting and somehow cohesive text despite the small groups working somewhat independently before I dipped my editorial mind into the mix. Those of you already familiar with my writing will probably be able to tell which sections are mine, but just in case—my first section begins with "Dear Sirs..." and the second with "I wanted to rip my eyes out."
You can purchase the new issue at Amazon. Here is the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Fiction-International-46-Virtual-Volume/dp/0931362121/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1382381311&sr=8-1&keywords=real+time+virtual+fiction

The Last Sane Man Alive

Here's one that was originally published in the San Diego Poetry Annual. I'm pretty fond of this piece, and I like that it kind of blurs the line between prose poem and flash fiction.

THE LAST SANE MAN ALIVE

     Winter arrived in July this year, a cloud of ruin brought gorgeous ashen snow. The deadly flakes danced through the florid sky, clinging loosely to his balding hair, a doomsday toupee. The fluorescent fungus in the horizon was a perfectly framed photograph. The end looked so lovely he could hardly pull himself away to hide. Miles away, the city wailed its last gasps.

     An underground bunker in the country, fully stocked. An ocean's worth of bottled water towering to the ceiling. An antique solid oak shelf overstuffed with his most prized canned goods. Boston baked beans, cream of broccoli soup, hominy grits, mandarin oranges. A framed black and white photo of his wife in a summer dress, taken in 1965 on their honeymoon, twenty years before she passed. A well-taped cardboard box containing his most favorite dusty literature, an extra pair of reading glasses, for he's no Burgess Meredith. Tiny vanilla candles to dull the scent of the latrine. A brand new generator, tested once for proper operation, once again for security. A small color television and VCR to watch home movies of his grandchildren back in Arkansas. A radio for hopeful news.

     He waited for days for help to come, he waited for weeks receiving none, he waited for months, never again to view the radiant sun.

Nasal Cancer

Here's the companion piece I mentioned during the last post. Enjoy...

NASAL CANCER

Flagitious flatulent fragrance drifting in the close quarters of public restrooms

The aroma of the once-living emanating from the vents of fast food establishments

     (you may lick your lips, but you also consume their fears and tears)

Potent perfume of sewage as you drive on the overpass, the troll beneath the bridge

     (you'll never successfully remove the stench from your upholstery)

The skunk run over by someone else's vehicle, but whose carcass is nowhere to be seen

A fresh turd of unknown origin, now wedged within the treads of your shoe

The ripe scent of a socially inept man too lazy to bathe regularly

     (he can afford comic books, but apparently not soap)

Vomit from the twenty-something partygoer, causing a domino effect

The overbearing power of freshly cut lawns in suburbia

Rotten vegetation, caused by low tides and high humidity

Aural Sects

Here's a little piece that deals with random sound. I have another that deals with smell; I'll post that sometime in the next week or so.

AURAL SECTS

Cacophony of the clock's alarm

     (and the itty bitty tick ticky if you awaken mere seconds before it explodes)

Crotch rockets roaring

     (unsuspecting drivers with coronary reactions)

Obese neighbor screaming “Harder, Joshy!”

The intimidatingly muscular neighbor hollering “Yo, neighborhood bitch...you up?”

     (luckily, he refers to you lovingly as “Big Dawg”)

Mentally disturbed vagrant in the alley mumbling about the government

The cadence of sports fans stomping and clapping in unison

     (as you wonder what you're missing)

Dogs barking because other dogs are barking because other dogs are barking

A teenage girl sobbing at the bus stop as her walkie talkie phone whirrs

“Fuckshitgoddamncocksuck!!!”

     (the battle cry of a man defeated by technology that is smarter than he)

Somebody angrily honking at never-ending traffic, wishing their car could sprout wings

The soothing beep of the heart rate monitor as you rest in your final bed