Alan Loewen's Blog, page 38
December 14, 2015
Rejoice With Me!
The first draft of Strange Streets is completed, all 4,900+ words of it.
Now I shall let it sit and age like a mellow wine and in a week or so I will revisit it and begin the harder work of revision and editing.
I have published some excerpts from the work and you can read them here, here, and here in that order.
And stay tuned. On Thursday, January 7th I am going to be doing a public reading of Strange Streets for some fellow authors and if you live in south-central Pennsylvania, I would like to invite you to the event.
So stay tuned. It's going to be fun.
13 Horrors: A Book Review
13 Horrors, edited by Brian A. Hopkins, has the subtitle, A Devil’s Dozen Stories Celebrating 13 Years of the World Horror Convention and let me assure you that the majority of the writing is top notch. If you enjoy literary prowess, you have found a wonderful foray into the art right here by some genuine masters of the craft. Everything Broken, by Edward Bryant: a psychological tale of a young woman coming to terms with angst and loss. It is very well written, but though there is a fantastic element to the story, I am hard pressed to call it horror. In fact, if the tale did not start with the theme of suicide, I would be hard pressed to even call it dark fantasy.
Wandering Child, by the late Melanie Tem features an unreliable narrator who is foster mother to a gathering of some very strange children.
Anti-Claus, by Graham Masterton is a retelling of the story of Santa Claus and though I had to suspend quite a bit of disbelief as to the motives of the narrator, the retelling of the legend was certainly interesting.
Pritty-Pritty, by Jessica Amanda Salmonson is about a mentally ill woman driven even more mentally ill by her neighbor’s little yappy dog, a sentiment and experience I can understand.
The Place of Revelation, by Ramsey Cambell with a young boy visiting relatives was reminiscent of the best of Welsh writer Arthur Machen.
The Sacerdotal Owl, by Michael Bishop was more of a dark fantasy romance than horror, but different readers may disagree about this tale of a young woman traveling to a war-torn Central American country to marry her archeologist-fiancé.
The Ice Prince, by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro is certainly not a horror tale and though very well written by a proven master, it would have been more at home between the covers of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
Conner Versus Puppet Head on Killmaster 3, by John Shirley deals ith a young boy who is addicted to video games and what happens when his friend brings a modification to his gaming console that brings the playing up to another level.
Cookies for Mr. Carson, by Nina Kiriki Hoffman is a subtle horror story that I had to reread twice to fully grasp what had happened to the young narrator with his creepy neighbor.
Gross Out Contest, by Michael Slade (the pen name of Canadian author Jay Clarke) is exactly that. A segment of a novel, it opens with an introduction to the World Horror Convention’s annual Gross Out Contest and the story is just that: repugnant to the extreme.
Black Shoes, by Gene Wolfe is a portal story and a meandering one. It touches on so many subjects as a reader I was hard-pressed to sum up the short story simply and succinctly.
The Bereavement Photographer, by Steve Rasnic Tem is an odd little offering more into the realm of fantasy than horror with its subject of an amateur photographer who takes pictures of grieving families with their deceased loved ones. Certainly creepy, but I am reluctant to call it horror.
For My Birthday, Another Candle, by the late Charles L. Grant tells the story of a man enduring the horror of his fortieth birthday with its reminder of encroaching mortality.
Like all anthologies, 13 Horrors is a mishmash of tales, wildly deviating in quality and emphasis. Not all comfortably fit into the horror genre, but as I said, there is no denying the literary prowess of the majority of contributors.
I'm a Magi!
Me Being A Christmas Wiseman...I Suspect It's TypecastingFor the last 15 years, I have participated in a Christmas hayride where people are taken by tractor-driven hay wagons to various scenes that reenact the Christmas story. Here I am as one of the Magi belting out We Three Kings, but unfortunately, the other more talented actors are not included in the shot so let me give a shout out to Bill Phillips and Scott Dentler who make the Magi display such an incredible hit.
And that is a bottle of myrrh I am holding, not Jack Daniels.
And, yes, the Magi did not wear glasses, but I am legally blind and was in charge of the pyrotechnics. We had balls of green and blue flame shooting out of the fire pit because ... well, hey... Magi!
Photo courtesy of the Hanover Evening Sun and you can see more pictures of the event here.
December 11, 2015
December 10, 2015
The Star: A Super Short Christmas Story
Of all the elements of the Christmas story, the addition of the three Magi from Persia is what delights me most. Here, in the midst of what is basically a Jewish story with its shepherds and stable, come three pagan astrologers to bring homage to the Christ Child.
I have one more Christmas tale to share next week, one specifically written for children. In the meantime, allow me to entertain you with a visit to Babylon, about 1 B.C.
The Starby Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Askar stood on the ziggurat observing the star-strewn sky above him. Goose bumps covered his exposed arms due to the chill night air, but he had learned over years of studying the night sky to ignore the discomfort of the body.
Below him, the dark streets of Babylon stretched away in all directions, with only the occasional lantern of a night watchman breaking through the stygian darkness.
The other mages had either ignored him or outright laughed when he showed them the ancient scroll. Crumbling with great age, it was truly a miracle that it had survived the centuries.
Askar had spent months painfully interpreting the ancient tongue, his imagination afire with stories of dreams, visions, fiery furnaces, lions’ dens, and disembodied hands writing curses on a palace wall.
The ancient work also referred to a coming king that would be born to the Hebrews and, by the gods! the work actually had a formula to determine the year of the coming king’s birth.
Yet, the secret of the formula lay outside of his knowledge until one day he met a scribe from Jerusalem who remembered how the ancient Hebrews determined time.
With great eagerness, he made the calculations, working on the ancient Hebrew calendar starting from when King Artaxerxes allowed the temple and the walls of far-off Jerusalem to be rebuilt.
When the answer lay before him as ink on papyrus, his hand shook, but he put his excitement aside and redid the calculations a second time.
The calculation proved true even after a third attempt and the halls of the temple rang with his shouts of triumph. The gods had blessed him. The advent of the coming king of the Hebrews was so near, it may have already happened.
Hastily, he consulted oracles, read the entrails of slaughtered goats, and searched the smoke arising from a burning ass’s head in vain, but there was no further revelation.
In frustration, he turned to the stars.
After weeks of searching the scroll of night, the Star came to him, and he fell to his knees weeping in joy and gratitude.
The next day he prepared for his journey, two fellow mages excitedly joining him for the journey, not because they were to meet a King, but because their youthful wanderlust was to be sated in foreign lands.
“Askar?” one of them asked as they loaded the caravan, “I understand bringing the new king gold, but why myrrh and frankincense?”
Askar tested the strap on a camel. “The ancient writing says the King will be cut off. As it will be my gold that greets his birth, it will be my myrrh and frankincense that will cover him in his tomb.”
He gave a final tug on the strap ignoring the camel’s protest. “The sun is setting,” he said impatiently. “Say goodbye to Babylon. We follow the star.”
I have one more Christmas tale to share next week, one specifically written for children. In the meantime, allow me to entertain you with a visit to Babylon, about 1 B.C.
The Starby Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Askar stood on the ziggurat observing the star-strewn sky above him. Goose bumps covered his exposed arms due to the chill night air, but he had learned over years of studying the night sky to ignore the discomfort of the body.
Below him, the dark streets of Babylon stretched away in all directions, with only the occasional lantern of a night watchman breaking through the stygian darkness.
The other mages had either ignored him or outright laughed when he showed them the ancient scroll. Crumbling with great age, it was truly a miracle that it had survived the centuries.
Askar had spent months painfully interpreting the ancient tongue, his imagination afire with stories of dreams, visions, fiery furnaces, lions’ dens, and disembodied hands writing curses on a palace wall.
The ancient work also referred to a coming king that would be born to the Hebrews and, by the gods! the work actually had a formula to determine the year of the coming king’s birth.
Yet, the secret of the formula lay outside of his knowledge until one day he met a scribe from Jerusalem who remembered how the ancient Hebrews determined time.
With great eagerness, he made the calculations, working on the ancient Hebrew calendar starting from when King Artaxerxes allowed the temple and the walls of far-off Jerusalem to be rebuilt.
When the answer lay before him as ink on papyrus, his hand shook, but he put his excitement aside and redid the calculations a second time.
The calculation proved true even after a third attempt and the halls of the temple rang with his shouts of triumph. The gods had blessed him. The advent of the coming king of the Hebrews was so near, it may have already happened.
Hastily, he consulted oracles, read the entrails of slaughtered goats, and searched the smoke arising from a burning ass’s head in vain, but there was no further revelation.
In frustration, he turned to the stars.
After weeks of searching the scroll of night, the Star came to him, and he fell to his knees weeping in joy and gratitude.
The next day he prepared for his journey, two fellow mages excitedly joining him for the journey, not because they were to meet a King, but because their youthful wanderlust was to be sated in foreign lands.
“Askar?” one of them asked as they loaded the caravan, “I understand bringing the new king gold, but why myrrh and frankincense?”
Askar tested the strap on a camel. “The ancient writing says the King will be cut off. As it will be my gold that greets his birth, it will be my myrrh and frankincense that will cover him in his tomb.”
He gave a final tug on the strap ignoring the camel’s protest. “The sun is setting,” he said impatiently. “Say goodbye to Babylon. We follow the star.”
December 9, 2015
If You Want To Write...
I have three cats. This is Ellie, the youngest of the trio.
Ellie has whiskers.
December 8, 2015
Strange Streets: Another Excerpt for Your Enjoyment
As for writing, as I may have mentioned in earlier posts, I have written 2015 off as an opportunity to write as all my emotional and mental strength is spent in dealing with serious urgencies that are vocational and familial, but the last few weeks have allowed me to put hand to keyboard as I spin a tale about James and his cousin, Darcy, as they explore West High Street in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. In their wanderings, they find a cobble-stoned alley lined with odd little shops that grow odder as they journey its length.
You can find the first sample here and the second one here and I would encourage you to read them first. They are quite short.
I must confess I am having so much fun I just had to share a third. To write once again is to once again bring joy to a heart overburdened with obligations that though they are freely and lovingly given, have left me somewhat exhausted both in heart and soul. Please enjoy.
“Darcy, please,” I said. I was finding it hard to talk and breathe at the same time as I felt a fist of fear grip my chest and squeeze. “There’s something wrong here. We’re the only people here.”
Darcy turned and looked at me quizzically. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “There’s lots of people.” She swung her open hand down the empty street. “See?” With that, she spun about and crossed the little bridge to the other side.
Panicked, I followed behind, confused and frightened, refusing to understand Darcy’s comment on fellow shoppers only she could see and wanting to keep her close for her protection as well as my own.
On the other side of the bridge, Darcy gazed in a shop window in rapt attention, but before I could join her, I started seeing shadows from the corner of my eyes, shadows casually strolling down the street either singly or in pairs, walking in and out of the shops that lined the wide cobblestone alley. Spinning like a top, I tried to bring them into full focus. Trembling, I rubbed my eyes and opened them to find the bothersome shadows in my peripheral vision still present. I turned to Darcy and caught sight of the merchandise in the store window.
It was filled with dolls, exquisite ball-jointed works of art dressed in silk finery, but I backed away in horror when I recognized the sentience in their eyes, souls speaking through their glass orbs that clearly communicated sorrow and a plea for release.
December 6, 2015
A Lord of All Futures Christmas Tale
A Lord of All Futures Christmas Tale
by Alan LoewenALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sarah blew on her chilled fingers to keep them nimble enough to work on the rose hips she had found. The seed pods, though low in true nourishment, contained a mysterious element that kept people from scurvy during the long winter months. She sighed as she remembered her life back in Berkeley Springs before the town was invaded by scavengers, before animals in human form killed her mother and sent Sarah fleeing into a huge, strange world. Her mother had taught her all she needed to know of hedge witchery and though Brother Theodore insisted that Sarah was nothing more than an herbalist, she knew her talent was far more than just knowing the names and purposes of plants. For a man, she mused, who claims to follow a god that once walked among men, his skepticism is quite odd.
A knock on the door brought her back to the present. “Come in,” she called.
Frost entered with a smile. “Good news,” he said.
A smile came to Sarah’s face. “You got us meat? Real meat?”
“Lobo and Lupus got a deer. Odell is stringing it up now with Marl trying to help.”
“Venison,” Sarah sighed. “I’m so tired of rat.”
“Marl seems to like rat,” Frost smirked and ducked from a thrown rose hip. “Sorry! Sorry!” he said quickly in apology. Sarah’s affection for the strange little girl they had rescued made her sensitive to any reference, however indirect, to Marl’s cat-like eyes and the secret kept hidden underneath Marl’s baggy dresses.
“Just for that, Marl gets your share of the brisket,” Sarah said.
Frost bowed. “I repent in dusty ashes,” he said. “Have you seen Brother Theodore?”
“He told me he was going over to the pub. Now help me with these rose hips. We have sick people waiting.”
+++++
Brother Theodore made his way through the ruins of Harrisburg toward the Unicorn & Gryphon Pub. Dirty snow and the occasional traveler wending their way back to their own hovels made for a dismal picture for the priest who remembered the cleaner environs of his home in Winchester, Virginia.
And as the year drew to its close—Anno Domini 2068 by the best reckoning they had—the Westminster Baptist Conclave would now be celebrating the end of the Advent vigil and its comforting traditions that survived even in a world gone mad.
Outside the pub, a few guards stomped their feet and blew on their hands before nodding at the priest. The pub master's only desire was to run his establishment in peace and quiet and well-fed guards who now knew a limited prosperity were delighted to stand guard with chilled ears, fingers, and toes to keep it that way.
The warmth of the pub’s interior brought a sigh of relief. The pub had just opened for the day and already men and women sat at a ragtag assortment of tables and chairs. They sat over their bowls and cups having already bartered for simple meals. The nourishing beer that was actually little more than boiled wheat, dried hops and wild yeast served as the universal drink of choice.
The pub’s owner stood behind the bar, his bald head reflecting the light in the fireplace. His reddish gray beard rested on his chest, carefully braided to stay out of mischief. He nodded at the priest and reached for a mug of beer and placed it before the priest.
“Still within my tab?” Brother Theodore asked.
“Those knives you traded me are still good for a few more beers,” the pub master replied with a toothy grin. “The missus made some cattail and acorn bread. Would you like some?”
“With rat broth?”
“Nothing easier in this world to run other than a rat farm, but you give me some venison and we’ll talk. Hey, I heard that there are feral pigs running around the woods south of town.”
"I’ll talk to Frost,” the priest said. “Until then, if rat broth is your only offering, bring on your finest.”
The priest ate in silence trying hard not to think of the source of the broth that soaked his bread. The pub master dealt with other customers, sometimes dickering over a trade.
When the barkeep wandered by, Brother Theodore waved him down to get his attention. “Tell me,” he asked, “if it’s not too personal a question, how old are you?”
The barkeep frowned for a moment, not over irritation at the question, but thinking on the answer. “I’m 59," he said after a pause, “a very healthy 59 years old. Still got all my teeth.”
“So you remember Christmas?”
The pub master paused in stunned surprise. “Why, yes,” he said. “I remember Christmas. I haven’t thought of it for years. I was five when the Change hit.”
“Then,” Brother Theodore said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I wonder if you would consider helping me out with a plan?”
+++++
The brisk wind cut through the canyons of Harrisburg’s ruined streets, empty except for five people, their heads tucked deep into their ragged coats and hats.
“I’m cold,” Marl complained. Her baggy dress didn’t seem to hold back the winter’s bitter chill.
Sarah scooped the child up and hugged her tight as Marl nestled into her arms. “Just a little further, dear heart.”
Frost blinked his eyes from the stinging wind. “If it wasn’t you promised me good food, Brother, I’d stay back home in bed.”
“It will be worth it,” the priest said. “And those two feral pigs you hunted down will be cooked to perfection. The pub master promised. And he claims he also has some dried venison left.”
Odell said nothing, his muscular bulk leading the way as he tried to block the wind’s worst effects from the four people who walked behind him.
As they neared the Unicorn & Gryphon Pub, warm, brilliant light spilled from those unboarded windows that still stood intact. Even out in the street, the smell of roast pork and other tantalizing smells made the five drool with anticipation.
The guards opened the door and Brother Theodore’s party hustled in, pushed by a stiff gust of icy air.
Once inside, as Brother Theodore smiled with anticipation, the little group stared in open-mouthed surprise.
A huge evergreen tree stood in the middle of the floor. Candles, an incredible luxury in a shattered world, illuminated the scene before them having been carefully positioned in front of fragments of mirrors. Hanging from the tree, shiny round objects shot the reflected candlelight back in a dazzling prism of color.
Marl squirmed out of Sarah’s arms, her little hands reaching out for the tantalizing sight. “Pretty tree!” she squealed. “Pretty tree!”
“What is this?” Sarah asked.
Brother Theodore laughed as Odell smiled at the sight before them. “It’s a Christmas tree,” the priest said. “It used to be a tradition before the Change.”
“Looks like you found a use for those worthless DVD’s and CD’s,” Odell said. “Where did you find them?”
The priest shrugged his shoulders. “In a number of the stores around here. They’re not edible so there are piles of them just lying around for the taking.”
Suddenly, a large vision dressed in red appeared from behind the tree. The owner of the pub shouted Ho! Ho! Ho!, his belly shaking inside a large red, ragged coat clearly intended for a woman. He had whitened his beard with precious acorn flour procured from his wife's larder.
Frost and Sarah looked at Brother Theodore quizzically while Marl squealed with delight at the apparition. Odell leaned against a wall in a paroxysm of laughter.
“Why, it’s Santa Claus!” Brother Theodore exclaimed in a melodramatic tone. He knelt down beside Marl. “Marl, they say Santa Claus brings gifts for good boys and girls. Why don’t you see if he has something for you?”
Tentatively, holding on to the priest’s hand for dear life, Marl approached the large, grinning man.
“Have you been a good little girl?” the pub master asked as Marl stared up at him with wide eyes. She nodded mutely.
“Well then, I have something for you.” The barkeep reached under the tree and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a rag. “Here you go.”
Carefully, Marl reached out for the bundle and stared at it.
“Open it up,” Brother Theodore said. “Go ahead.”
Marl unwrapped it to find a doll, amazingly clean and whole. Marl, eyes wide open in wonder, turned to look at Sarah.
“Looks like you got a baby doll, Marl,” Sarah said. “Now what do you tell … umm … Santa Claus?”
Marl turned and looked up into the eyes of the pub master. “Thank you,” she whispered. She hugged the plastic figure and looked at it again. “It’s really mine?”
Santa failed to keep the tremor of emotion out of his voice, “Yes, sweetheart. It’s yours.”
+++++
Two other packages appeared from under the tree: a mortar and pestle for Sarah and a whistle for Frost.
“It’s amazing what you can find in the rubble if you know where to look,” Theodore whispered to Odell. “Now,” he announced to the group, “let’s see what Santa Claus has prepared for us this Christmas.”
And with that, the pub's doors swung open for business and people looking for food and warmth began to fill the large room. Most looked at the Christmas tree in puzzlement. The older ones who dimly remembered life before the Change stared with obvious emotion.
At a table of their own, the priest’s little group, along with the barkeep and his wife, shared a repast of roasted pork courtesy of the hunting prowess of Frost and his two wolves. Broiled venison from the private larder of the barkeep added to the meal along with bread and the ever present rat stew.
Sometime later, Sarah sat back with a contented sigh. “Brother Theodore, what is this Christmas you talked about?”
The priest sat back in his own chair. “Let me tell you the story,” he said. “Many, many years ago a powerful king named Caesar Augustus decided that all his subjects had to give him some money. He made them all travel back to the places where they were born and two people named Joseph and Mary had to go to a town named Bethlehem …”
Those sitting near their table hushed their own conversations at overhearing the novelty of a story until only Brother Theodore’s voice spoke out clear and bold, telling once again the never-aging story of the world’s first Christmas.
And as the priest told the tale, far above the pub the dark winter clouds parted and one bright shining star illuminated the streets of a shattered city.
by Alan LoewenALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(Author’s note: This story takes place in my unpublished Lord of All Futures post-apocalyptic novel which describes the adventures of Brother Theodore and his bodyguard, Odell traveling on a mission to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. They are accompanied by two young fugitives they meet along the way: Sarah, a hedge witch in exile, and Frost, a hunter accompanied by Lobo and Lupus, two large wolves. In the ruins of Harrisburg, the four rescue a little girl named Marl from two men who controlled several monstrous, mutated dogs. After her rescue, the adventurers discover that Marl, with her cat-like eyes and other feline features, is certainly something more or something less than human. This story takes place as they winter in Harrisburg waiting for the spring thaw and easier traveling.)
Sarah blew on her chilled fingers to keep them nimble enough to work on the rose hips she had found. The seed pods, though low in true nourishment, contained a mysterious element that kept people from scurvy during the long winter months. She sighed as she remembered her life back in Berkeley Springs before the town was invaded by scavengers, before animals in human form killed her mother and sent Sarah fleeing into a huge, strange world. Her mother had taught her all she needed to know of hedge witchery and though Brother Theodore insisted that Sarah was nothing more than an herbalist, she knew her talent was far more than just knowing the names and purposes of plants. For a man, she mused, who claims to follow a god that once walked among men, his skepticism is quite odd.
A knock on the door brought her back to the present. “Come in,” she called.
Frost entered with a smile. “Good news,” he said.
A smile came to Sarah’s face. “You got us meat? Real meat?”
“Lobo and Lupus got a deer. Odell is stringing it up now with Marl trying to help.”
“Venison,” Sarah sighed. “I’m so tired of rat.”
“Marl seems to like rat,” Frost smirked and ducked from a thrown rose hip. “Sorry! Sorry!” he said quickly in apology. Sarah’s affection for the strange little girl they had rescued made her sensitive to any reference, however indirect, to Marl’s cat-like eyes and the secret kept hidden underneath Marl’s baggy dresses.
“Just for that, Marl gets your share of the brisket,” Sarah said.
Frost bowed. “I repent in dusty ashes,” he said. “Have you seen Brother Theodore?”
“He told me he was going over to the pub. Now help me with these rose hips. We have sick people waiting.”
+++++
Brother Theodore made his way through the ruins of Harrisburg toward the Unicorn & Gryphon Pub. Dirty snow and the occasional traveler wending their way back to their own hovels made for a dismal picture for the priest who remembered the cleaner environs of his home in Winchester, Virginia.
And as the year drew to its close—Anno Domini 2068 by the best reckoning they had—the Westminster Baptist Conclave would now be celebrating the end of the Advent vigil and its comforting traditions that survived even in a world gone mad.
Outside the pub, a few guards stomped their feet and blew on their hands before nodding at the priest. The pub master's only desire was to run his establishment in peace and quiet and well-fed guards who now knew a limited prosperity were delighted to stand guard with chilled ears, fingers, and toes to keep it that way.
The warmth of the pub’s interior brought a sigh of relief. The pub had just opened for the day and already men and women sat at a ragtag assortment of tables and chairs. They sat over their bowls and cups having already bartered for simple meals. The nourishing beer that was actually little more than boiled wheat, dried hops and wild yeast served as the universal drink of choice.
The pub’s owner stood behind the bar, his bald head reflecting the light in the fireplace. His reddish gray beard rested on his chest, carefully braided to stay out of mischief. He nodded at the priest and reached for a mug of beer and placed it before the priest.
“Still within my tab?” Brother Theodore asked.
“Those knives you traded me are still good for a few more beers,” the pub master replied with a toothy grin. “The missus made some cattail and acorn bread. Would you like some?”
“With rat broth?”
“Nothing easier in this world to run other than a rat farm, but you give me some venison and we’ll talk. Hey, I heard that there are feral pigs running around the woods south of town.”
"I’ll talk to Frost,” the priest said. “Until then, if rat broth is your only offering, bring on your finest.”
The priest ate in silence trying hard not to think of the source of the broth that soaked his bread. The pub master dealt with other customers, sometimes dickering over a trade.
When the barkeep wandered by, Brother Theodore waved him down to get his attention. “Tell me,” he asked, “if it’s not too personal a question, how old are you?”
The barkeep frowned for a moment, not over irritation at the question, but thinking on the answer. “I’m 59," he said after a pause, “a very healthy 59 years old. Still got all my teeth.”
“So you remember Christmas?”
The pub master paused in stunned surprise. “Why, yes,” he said. “I remember Christmas. I haven’t thought of it for years. I was five when the Change hit.”
“Then,” Brother Theodore said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I wonder if you would consider helping me out with a plan?”
+++++
The brisk wind cut through the canyons of Harrisburg’s ruined streets, empty except for five people, their heads tucked deep into their ragged coats and hats.
“I’m cold,” Marl complained. Her baggy dress didn’t seem to hold back the winter’s bitter chill.
Sarah scooped the child up and hugged her tight as Marl nestled into her arms. “Just a little further, dear heart.”
Frost blinked his eyes from the stinging wind. “If it wasn’t you promised me good food, Brother, I’d stay back home in bed.”
“It will be worth it,” the priest said. “And those two feral pigs you hunted down will be cooked to perfection. The pub master promised. And he claims he also has some dried venison left.”
Odell said nothing, his muscular bulk leading the way as he tried to block the wind’s worst effects from the four people who walked behind him.
As they neared the Unicorn & Gryphon Pub, warm, brilliant light spilled from those unboarded windows that still stood intact. Even out in the street, the smell of roast pork and other tantalizing smells made the five drool with anticipation.
The guards opened the door and Brother Theodore’s party hustled in, pushed by a stiff gust of icy air.
Once inside, as Brother Theodore smiled with anticipation, the little group stared in open-mouthed surprise.
A huge evergreen tree stood in the middle of the floor. Candles, an incredible luxury in a shattered world, illuminated the scene before them having been carefully positioned in front of fragments of mirrors. Hanging from the tree, shiny round objects shot the reflected candlelight back in a dazzling prism of color.
Marl squirmed out of Sarah’s arms, her little hands reaching out for the tantalizing sight. “Pretty tree!” she squealed. “Pretty tree!”
“What is this?” Sarah asked.
Brother Theodore laughed as Odell smiled at the sight before them. “It’s a Christmas tree,” the priest said. “It used to be a tradition before the Change.”
“Looks like you found a use for those worthless DVD’s and CD’s,” Odell said. “Where did you find them?”
The priest shrugged his shoulders. “In a number of the stores around here. They’re not edible so there are piles of them just lying around for the taking.”
Suddenly, a large vision dressed in red appeared from behind the tree. The owner of the pub shouted Ho! Ho! Ho!, his belly shaking inside a large red, ragged coat clearly intended for a woman. He had whitened his beard with precious acorn flour procured from his wife's larder.
Frost and Sarah looked at Brother Theodore quizzically while Marl squealed with delight at the apparition. Odell leaned against a wall in a paroxysm of laughter.
“Why, it’s Santa Claus!” Brother Theodore exclaimed in a melodramatic tone. He knelt down beside Marl. “Marl, they say Santa Claus brings gifts for good boys and girls. Why don’t you see if he has something for you?”
Tentatively, holding on to the priest’s hand for dear life, Marl approached the large, grinning man.
“Have you been a good little girl?” the pub master asked as Marl stared up at him with wide eyes. She nodded mutely.
“Well then, I have something for you.” The barkeep reached under the tree and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a rag. “Here you go.”
Carefully, Marl reached out for the bundle and stared at it.
“Open it up,” Brother Theodore said. “Go ahead.”
Marl unwrapped it to find a doll, amazingly clean and whole. Marl, eyes wide open in wonder, turned to look at Sarah.
“Looks like you got a baby doll, Marl,” Sarah said. “Now what do you tell … umm … Santa Claus?”
Marl turned and looked up into the eyes of the pub master. “Thank you,” she whispered. She hugged the plastic figure and looked at it again. “It’s really mine?”
Santa failed to keep the tremor of emotion out of his voice, “Yes, sweetheart. It’s yours.”
+++++
Two other packages appeared from under the tree: a mortar and pestle for Sarah and a whistle for Frost.
“It’s amazing what you can find in the rubble if you know where to look,” Theodore whispered to Odell. “Now,” he announced to the group, “let’s see what Santa Claus has prepared for us this Christmas.”
And with that, the pub's doors swung open for business and people looking for food and warmth began to fill the large room. Most looked at the Christmas tree in puzzlement. The older ones who dimly remembered life before the Change stared with obvious emotion.
At a table of their own, the priest’s little group, along with the barkeep and his wife, shared a repast of roasted pork courtesy of the hunting prowess of Frost and his two wolves. Broiled venison from the private larder of the barkeep added to the meal along with bread and the ever present rat stew.
Sometime later, Sarah sat back with a contented sigh. “Brother Theodore, what is this Christmas you talked about?”
The priest sat back in his own chair. “Let me tell you the story,” he said. “Many, many years ago a powerful king named Caesar Augustus decided that all his subjects had to give him some money. He made them all travel back to the places where they were born and two people named Joseph and Mary had to go to a town named Bethlehem …”
Those sitting near their table hushed their own conversations at overhearing the novelty of a story until only Brother Theodore’s voice spoke out clear and bold, telling once again the never-aging story of the world’s first Christmas.
And as the priest told the tale, far above the pub the dark winter clouds parted and one bright shining star illuminated the streets of a shattered city.
December 5, 2015
Hardboiled Cthulhu: Two-fisted Tales of Tentacled Terror: A Review
Note: Due to subject matter and graphic violence and some sexual situations, I do not recommend this work for children. Editing an anthology is hard work and I can easily imagine editing one that embraces the cosmos of Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos even more so. The editor has to make a decision as to whether s/he will choose tales that are classic Lovecraft that create an atmosphere of growing awe and dread or embrace the more modern definition of horror with its splatterpunk and graphic sexuality. Then there is the matter of theme.
James Ambuel took on the mantle, but unfortunately, with Hardboiled Cthulhu: Two-fisted Tales of Tentacled Terror he did not actually succeed. A collection of uneven stories, the works were to embrace stories that are “hardboiled,” with the impression they are basically pastiches of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett.
The result is a mishmash of detective noir (Ambuehl’s opening story, The Pisces Club), detective noir satire (Tim Curran’s entertaining Eldritch-Fellas), an Iraqi war story (Jeffrey Thomas’ Pazuzu’s Children), a reporter investigating the Starry Wisdom cult (Robert M. Price’s The Prying Investigations of Edwin M. Lillibridge) and others. Buyer beware, you are getting a book of Cthulhu Mythos stories, but they embrace all sorts of themes and tropes.
All in all, the collection holds its own. Jonathan Sharp’s The White Mountains introduces us to two moonshine runners who fall on the wrong side of an inbred mountain family who just happen to worship one very nasty monstrosity. John Sunseri has a little story about professional thieves stealing the Necronomicon from the heavily guarded library at Miskatonic University. The anthology also has offerings from the late J. F. Gonzalez and the late C.J. Henderson, so collectors of their works may find some value in the book.
All in all, the collection is not a waste of time. Just be aware of what you are buying.
Personal note: On August 5, 2010, I started tracking the books I read. Hardboiled Cthulhu: Two-fisted Tales of Tentacled Terror is #215.
Ship's Boy (The David Birkenhead Series Book 1): A Review
I was given a copy of Ship's Boy (The David Birkenhead Series Book 1) some years ago at a convention as a giveaway and it sat on my shelf for quite awhile until I picked it up and started reading about a future where worlds are ruled by a strict social order and united in a loose federation that can be tricky and sometimes dangerous. I picked the book up not expecting much and put it down surprisingly delighted and entertained.There are those who will simply ignore the book because the protagonist is a genetically-engineered rabbit who is born into slavery and begins the journey to hero, but author Phil Geusz demonstrates he is a master at world-building and character development. The military aspects of the story are fascinating and described in such a way that the action is not paused for an info dump. The pace is exhilarating and the story keeps your interest. The political aspects are complex, but do not bog down the story. Bottom line: this is good stuff.
If this novella is a sample of what is to come, Geusz has written a series well worth pursuing.
The first book in the series is free and readers in the United States can download it
Personal note: On August 5, 2010, I started tracking the books I read. Ship's Boy (The David Birkenhead Series Book 1) is #216.
