Thomas Brown's Blog, page 6
December 19, 2014
OF A DARKER ART
Gorgeous!
Originally posted on Author Joseph Pinto's Horror (and things not so horrible) Blog:
OF A DARKER ART
Got hell in mouth
Devil on tongue
Voodoo mama on brain
Demon in heart.
Dig bones from dirt
Bury spleens in hearth
Keep gris-gris round neck
Darkness never part.
Never sell this spell
But steal your charm
Tongue flick tail rattle, baby
Yeah, snake round arm.
But hell in mouth
Need devil on tongue
Voodoo mama on brain
You the demon in my heart.
�� Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
December 9, 2014
Damned Words 10
This is my favourite collection of responses yet! Each of them is so evocative and personal. We could tell a dozen stories or more from the few hundred words shared here.
Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:
Misery
Thomas Brown
Misery��rolled with the dogs in the shadows of Tompkin���s shed.
On August 25th, 1968, Mike Callahan hung himself from a cross-beam in the ceiling. The wood was old and riddled with rot but it held his weight well enough.
On July 13th, 1985, Sarah Paulson was stabbed in the neck while tending to the potted bulbs on the windowsill. She died instantly. The bulbs never sprouted.
1989, fire. 1997, rape.
In 2001, the Tompkins moved in. The shed became a doghouse. Two-year old Muttley howled perpetually. Three coats of paint couldn���t hide the stains seeping through the skirting board.
Inner Sanctum
Jon Olson
Don���t open it! Leave it shut! You must not let them in. I know you���re tired. You spent years building this place; this hideout; this inner sanctum. Yes, although you can���t see them, your victims are in here too���
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2. The Romantic Sublime
���But Gothic art is sublime. On entering a cathedral, I am filled with devotion and awe; I am lost to the actualities that surround me, and my whole being expands into the infinite; earth and air, nature and art, all swell up into eternity, and the only sensible expression left is, ���that I am nothing!������
Coleridge, ‘European Literature’
My reading for the best part of November has been the history of the sublime. It is integral that I understand where the concept has come from and how it has changed over the course of its lifetime. My main focus has been The Sublime by Philip Shaw, which offers a comprehensive overview of the concept’s evolution (and the ‘Sublime Problem’) from Dionysus Longinus in the first century CE to��its postmodern incarnations. Shaw’s emphasis is on those theorists and philosophers who have written at length on the subject and contributed most influentially to the changing concept.
The ‘Sublime Problem’ is a reflection of the issue at the heart of the sublime: how to define something which, by definition, is undefinable. This seems the driving force behind the theory of the sublime and varying approaches are taken with regards to navigating it. Longinus’ predilections were for a rhetoric sublime; a form of righteous speech��which elevated its listeners��to heights of rapturous awe, but the noble��and divine aspects of this are at odds with its reliance on the materialistic dependency of words. How can it be divine, unknown, sublime, if we can reduce it to components of language? Longinus counters this by suggesting that��the sublime cannot be taught or instructed,��preserving the mystery at the heart of the concept but failing to rationalise its origins or mechanics.
It is a paradox that will haunt the sublime for almost two thousand years. Is the source of the sublime divine, natural, or a product of the human mind? If it is the latter, is it a spiritual, psychological or biological experience? Burnet��attempts to move away from the sublime’s slavish dependency on language, suggesting that��the sublime stems instead from the natural world. Dennis expanded on��this; for him,��the natural sublime represents a manifestation of the vastness, the power and terror of God.��Later theorists realised the importance of reflection and distance to experiencing the sublime, all the while debating the nature of the sublime as a constructed or inherent concept.
I��could go on for pages but it is the Romantic��sublime of the��mid-to-late eighteen century that I want to briefly reference here. From my initial readings, it is��clear that the Romantic sublime is closely related to horror/Gothic fiction, linked as they are by the time periods in which they appeared, the themes of the supernatural and the reliance of this sublime on art/literature as a means of being invoked. By this stage, theorists had deemed art as a platform or medium through which nature and mind could be consolidated, Schelling suggesting that art, or imagination, is an intuitive response to the sublime. Without doubt, this is the form of the sublime that I have already recognised in my reading. The themes of terror, the supernatural, old gods, vast castles, forests, storms��and ancient rituals that constitute Gothic fiction imbue the grandeur, the otherworldliness, the unfathomable and the mystic associated with sublime. From our place as detached viewers/readers, experiencing these terrors from the safe distance of a book or canvas, we are in prime position to receive them and their sublime inferences.
It is not much, but it is a start, and confirmation, perhaps, that there might be some body and soul to my project. Longinus remarks that not everyone is receptive of the sublime, but I��feel better for understanding more clearly my affinity for horror fiction; a question which has long weighed on my mind, as I am sure it does many horror writers. Often I have questioned my own role as a writer in this field, when my style or voice has not conformed to genre conventions. My protagonists do not seem so strange now for loving the wolves’ howls, or setting fire to their paintings, or eschewing home comforts for the cold tracks of the night-time forest.��They too have sensed��a meaning beyond that of thought or language, and chased��after it through flames, animal song��and the night.
The Romantic Sublime
���But Gothic art is sublime. On entering a cathedral, I am filled with devotion and awe; I am lost to the actualities that surround me, and my whole being expands into the infinite; earth and air, nature and art, all swell up into eternity, and the only sensible expression left is, ���that I am nothing!������
Coleridge, ‘European Literature’
My reading for the best part of November has been the history of the sublime. It is integral that I understand where the concept has come from and how it has changed over the course of its lifetime. My main focus has been The Sublime by Philip Shaw, which offers a comprehensive overview of the concept’s evolution (and the ‘Sublime Problem’) from Dionysus Longinus in the first century CE to��its postmodern incarnations. Shaw’s emphasis is on those theorists and philosophers who have written at length on the subject and contributed most influentially to the changing concept.
The ‘Sublime Problem’ is a reflection of the issue at the heart of the sublime: how to define something which, by definition, is undefinable. This seems the driving force behind the theory of the sublime and varying approaches are taken with regards to navigating it. Longinus’ predilections were for a rhetoric sublime; a form of righteous speech��which elevated its listeners��to heights of rapturous awe, but the noble��and divine aspects of this are at odds with its reliance on the materialistic dependency of words. How can it be divine, unknown, sublime, if we can reduce it to components of language? Longinus counters this by suggesting that��the sublime cannot be taught or instructed,��preserving the mystery at the heart of the concept but failing to rationalise its origins or mechanics.
It is a paradox that will haunt the sublime for almost two thousand years. Is the source of the sublime divine, natural, or a product of the human mind? If it is the latter, is it a spiritual, psychological or biological experience? Burnet��attempts to move away from the sublime’s slavish dependency on language, suggesting that��the sublime stems instead from the natural world. Dennis expanded on��this; for him,��the natural sublime represents a manifestation of the vastness, the power and terror of God.��Later theorists realised the importance of reflection and distance to experiencing the sublime, all the while debating the nature of the sublime as a constructed or inherent concept.
I��could go on for pages but it is the Romantic��sublime of the��mid-to-late eighteen century that I want to briefly reference here. From my initial readings, it is��clear that the Romantic sublime is closely related to horror/Gothic fiction, linked as they are by the time periods in which they appeared, the themes of the supernatural and the reliance of this sublime on art/literature as a means of being invoked. By this stage, theorists had deemed art as a platform or medium through which nature and mind could be consolidated, Schelling suggesting that art, or imagination, is an intuitive response to the sublime. Without doubt, this is the form of the sublime that I have already recognised in my reading. The themes of terror, the supernatural, old gods, vast castles, forests, storms��and ancient rituals that constitute Gothic fiction imbue the grandeur, the otherworldliness, the unfathomable and the mystic associated with sublime. From our place as detached viewers/readers, experiencing these terrors from the safe distance of a book or canvas, we are in prime position to receive them and their sublime inferences.
It is not much, but it is a start, and confirmation, perhaps, that there might be some body and soul to my project. Longinus remarks that not everyone is receptive of the sublime, but I��feel better for understanding more clearly my affinity for horror fiction; a question which has long weighed on my mind, as I am sure it does many horror writers. Often I have questioned my own role as a writer in this field, when my style or voice has not conformed to genre conventions. My protagonists do not seem so strange now for loving the wolves’ howls, or setting fire to their paintings, or eschewing home comforts for the cold tracks of the night-time forest.��They too have sensed��a meaning beyond that of thought or language, and chased��after it through flames, animal song��and the night.
December 4, 2014
Lynnwood | Thomas Brown
This remains one of my favourite reviews of LYNNWOOD. It means a great deal to read a response such as this and know that someone has perhaps, for a dozen chapters or so, understood me.
Originally posted on Books are my Drug:
Lynnwood (ebook ISBN 9781907230424)�� by Thomas Brown is a horror about a town with a dark secret.
The unthinkable is happening in Lynnwood ��� a village with centuries of guilt on its conscience.
Who wouldn���t want to live in an idyllic village in the English countryside like Lynnwood? With its charming pub, old dairy, friendly vicar, gurgling brooks, and�� its old paths with memories of simpler times.
But behind the conventional appearance of Lynnwood���s villagers, only two sorts of people crawl out of the woodwork: those who hunt and those who are prey. Visitors are watched by an entity between the trees where the Dark Ages have endured to the twenty-first century. Families who have lived behind stone walls and twitching curtains know that the gusts of wind blowing through the nearby alluring Forest bring with them a stench of delightful hunger only Lynnwood can appease.
This is���
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November 30, 2014
‘Hospitality’
I fantasise about a world in which hospitality is an accurate descriptor for the industry it is used to describe. In this world, hospitality can be experienced in many forms. It can be seen in the smiles of waiters when they approach your table to take your food order. It can be heard from the mouths of tillers as they thank you for waiting in-line on a Saturday. It can be smelled in uncorked wine bottles, tasted from plates still hot from the kitchen, felt in the hearts of satisfied customers, and in the hearts of those satisfying them.
In my fantasy, it is more important to host a person, to offer them a roof under which they might eat, drink and know peace, than to push them for profit. Men and women wander from the street into this make-believe place and are greeted at the door, or else left to their own devices, to browse menus or display fridges at their leisure. In my fantasy, hospitality is a virtue, not an industry umbrella. In my fantasy, hospitality is a two-way street.
I fantasise about a world in which hospitable men and women are met as such. In this world, those offering hospitality are appreciated for their efforts. When a waiter smiles at the family under his care, they smile back at him. When a tiller thanks her customer for his patience, he accepts her gratitude. When good food is eaten and better wine imbibed, customers with full bellies and happy faces take a moment to feel grateful for the meal that they have just sat down and enjoyed.
In my fantasy, everyone is human. Sometimes food is not piping hot. Wine bottles spill. Wine glasses break. Sometimes there are not enough waiters to attend every table immediately, and sometimes the tiller���s till malfunctions. In my fantasy, the thirsty man and the hungry woman and the family of four out for the day remember that those offering them hospitality are people, just like themselves; not malicious or rude or antagonistic but hospitable, by definition friendly, welcoming, disposed to treat their guests warmly and with care.
As you shout into my face, as you jab my chest with your forefinger, as your spittle spots my cheeks, I stand quite still and I fantasise about a world in which hospitality is an accurate descriptor for the industry it is used to describe.
November 28, 2014
RELEASE: Broken Worlds
Earlier this year I was incredibly humbled to place first in the annual Almond Press Short Story Competition.��From my entry and��a number of shortlisted entries by some genuinely talented��writers, Almond Press has successfully compiled��its third anthology –��BROKEN WORLDS.
The anthology theme is self-explanatory, but when compared with the press’ previous two anthologies it really sings – first we had THE FALL, then AFTER THE FALL. Now we can read about what comes next. Dystopias. Discrimination, repression, suppression, strange worlds and familiar ones, fear��and perhaps a little hope. As with most anthologies, the flavours, voices and��styles of writing are broad and should appeal to a wide variety of readers.
Almond Press works tirelessly to produce its annual anthologies and it would mean a great deal to me if we could help to make this one their biggest success yet. They are a small, independent press based in Scotland and I’m sure they will be appreciative of any support we can give them.��The ebook is released today, with a paperback (their first!) to follow next month.��So please do pick up a copy and tread with careful feet over the broken remnants of our world, and those like it…
BROKEN WORLDS����� Tales of Dystopia
The Sad Man ��� by Thomas Brown
Vision of Paradise ��� by Clare Banks
The Deepening Well ��� by Sam Hurcom
The Paperboy ��� by Gemma L Thompson
The Farm ��� by George Vernon
Dreg Town ��� by Steph Minns
It Was the Best of Times ��� by Konstantine Paradias
Urbanova ��� by Christian Cook
Carved in Ice ��� by Doxa J. Zannou
Watch ��� by Miles Gatrell
Water Rats ��� by Terry Holland
Pioneer ��� by Joe Saxon
Leadership Gene ��� by Francis Beckett
Equity Lamp ��� Adam ���Bucho��� Rodenberger
Graduate Scheme ��� by Holly Seddon
Silva���s Plague ��� by Ian Green
Meat is Murder ��� by David Turnbull
Machinations ��� by Shira Hereld
The Last Canvas ��� by Paul Dawson
Screens ��� by Alix Owen
The Rebel���s Daughter ��� by Virginia Ballesty
The Insects ��� by Gavin Bryce
The Secret Rooms ��� by Claire Smith
The Architect ��� by Gavin Haran
3AM Job ��� by Mark Schultz
Cover art by Daniel Tyka
Zen
November 27, 2014
The Damned
Be sure to follow Pen of the Damned: free short horror fiction every Tuesday from an eclectic group of writers including Joseph Pinto,��Nina D’arcangela, Hunter Shea, Craig McGray, Magenta Nero, Leslie Moon, Blaze McRob, Zack Kullis,��Tyr Kieran, Jon Olson and myself.
November 25, 2014
Life In The Pit
Tyr Kieran’s ‘Life in the Pit’
Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:
I stood among chaos.
Bodies swarmed in all directions, screaming. My heart thumped, pounding erratically as if desperately trying to catch its breath. The m��l��e���a whirlwind of life and death���churned around me. My clothes were spattered in mingled sweat and grime. The pit was terrifying.
I fought against the swell of sanity-breaking panic every single time I stepped into the pit and faced the sea of aggressors. It always felt like one against a thousand. It was hell. It was my job.
I enriched or ruined lives on a daily basis, my own included. As a floor trader for the New York Stock Exchange, I battled the greedy horde for a greater share of the same pool of wealth. Think of it as planned chaos brought forth by a den of thieves who were jockeyed by self-made Gods. No good would come from it and failure was never an option.
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