TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Information
BILL BREEDLOVE:
Introduction: Alive & Kicking
CODY GOODFELLOW:
About Cody Goodfellow
Venus of Santa Cruz
The Weak Sisters Bust Out
The Wet Nurse
Love To Give
GEMMA FILES:
About Gemma Files
Ring of Fire
Crossing The River
The Speed of Pain
MORT CASTLE:
About Mort Castle
Moon On The Water
I Am Your Need
Bird’s Dead
Dreaming Robot Monster
Music On The Michigan Avenue Bridge
GARY A. BRAUNBECK:
About Gary A. Braunbeck
Merge Right
As It Is In Your Head
Bargain
…And When It Is Decided That The War Is Over
OTHER TITLES FROM DARK ARTS BOOKS
MIGHTY UNCLEAN
Compilation copyright © 2009 by Bill Breedlove & John Everson.
MIGHTY UNCLEAN. Compilation copyright © 2009 by Bill Breedlove & John Everson.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information on this and other Dark Arts Books titles, visit www.darkartsbooks.com or e-mail [email protected].
All stories are printed or reprinted here with permission of the authors.
Cover art and book design copyright © 2009 by John Everson.
“Introduction” copyright © 2009 by Bill Breedlove.
“Venus of Santa Cruz” copyright © 2005 by Cody Goodfellow.
First published in Lullaby Hearse #6, 2005.
“The Weak Sisters Bust Out” copyright © 2009 by Cody Goodfellow.
“The Wet Nurse” copyright © 2009 by Cody Goodfellow.
“Love to Give” copyright © 2009 by Cody Goodfellow.
“Ring of Fire” copyright © 2008 by Gemma Files. 1996
First Published in Palace Corbie #6, Merrimack Books, 1996.
“Crossing the River” copyright © 2009 by Gemma Files.
“The Speed of Pain” copyright © 2009 by Gemma Files.
“Moon on the Water” copyright © 1978 by Mort Castle. First appeared under the title “Lady in the Lake” in Cavalier Magazine / Dugent Publishing, 1978. Reprinted as “Moon on the Water” in Moon on the Water, Darktales Publications, 2000, and in the mass market Moon on the Water, Dorchester Publications / Leisure Books 2002.
“I Am Your Need” copyright © 2001 by Mort Castle. First published in Brainbox II, Irrational Press, 2001. Reprinted in Nations of the Living, Nations of the Dead, Prime Books, 2002.
“Bird’s Dead” copyright © 2000 by Mort Castle. first appeared in Moon on the Water, Darktales Publications, 2000, reprinted in the mass market Moon on the Water, Dorchester Publications / Leisure Books 2002.
“Dreaming Robot Monster” copyright © 2009 by Mort Castle.
“Music on Michigan Avenue” copyright © 1990 by Mort Castle. First appeared as a comics story in Rex Miller’s Chaingang, Northstar Publishing, 1990. Reprinted in the comic Night City, 1997, Thorby Comics and as a prose story in Nations of the Living, Nations of the Dead, Prime Books, 2002.
“Merge Right” copyright © 2006 by Gary A. Braunbeck.
Originally appeared in Destinations Unknown, CD Publications
“As It Is In Your Head” copyright © 2009 by Gary A. Braunbeck.
“Bargain” copyright © 2009 by Gary A. Braunbeck.
“When It Is Decided That The War Is Over” copyright © 2009 by Gary A. Braunbeck.
First Dark Arts e-Book edition, March 2012
First Dark Arts Books Printing, March 2009
www.darkartsbooks.com
Introduction: Alive & Kicking
ne of the most persistent popular conceptions is that “horror” fiction is, as a viable genre, “dead.” Of course, the key word isn’t “horror” or “dead” but rather “viable.”
If one waits around long enough, sooner or later everything that isn’t the trendiest at that particular, precise moment will be termed “dead” or “dying.” Whether from an economic, popular or aesthetic perspective, the viability of almost everything is questioned and – often prematurely – declared a gone goose.
In my lifetime alone, I can recall everything from 8-track tapes (perhaps not the greatest loss) to the game of professional baseball receiving epitaphs. As I write this, daily print newspapers, paper books and even the publishing industry as we know now it all are apparently earnestly being measured for their shroud.
I’m not here to predict what will happen with newspapers or books, and I am certainly not going to enter the debate about the current state of publishing. But, what I am here to do is to try and offer my belief that, to paraphrase the quotation so famously offered by Mark Twain: the reports of the death of horror fiction are greatly exaggerated.
It is true that many bookstores have removed the separate designation of a stand alone “horror” section in recent years. This seems to trouble some folks to no end, and yet I can’t imagine fully why that is the case. While it is all well and good to separate genres, do we really need a unique section labeled “horror” in a bookstore? Is it so wrong that horror books sit on shelves next to titles in “general fiction,” “popular fiction” or – heaven forbid – “literature”?
Perhaps it stems from the fact that people who perceive themselves to belong to a particular genre also tend to feel fiercely protective of that genre. It is surely true that mystery writers may have a different audience that science fiction writers, and romance authors probably aren’t writing specifically for the Westerns crowd, but I think perhaps such specialization is more a networking tool for the writers themselves rather than a useful guidepost for prospective readers.
If we’ve seen anything, it is that the 21st century is the rise of the mash-up, the genre-busting, category-challenging work that combines elements from all kinds of different sources and synthesizes it into a special, unique brew.
Which brings us to the real reason that horror fiction will continue to not only survive, but thrive. Genres wither and die primarily for two reasons: lack of interest and lack of fresh ideas.
The good news is that, from an audience standpoint, there is no dearth of interest in the dark, the macabre, the frightening. Whether it’s called “horror,” “dark fiction,” “thriller,” “dark fantasy,” or “booga-booga stories,” there has always been and always continues to be an audience for scary stories. Horror films continue to make money at the box office, and the same is true for publishing.
Folks tend to like to go back to the “boom and bust” period of 1980s and 1990s for referencing the rise and fall of horror fiction. Many say that the genre has yet to get up off the mat from that fall. While it might be true that publishers are creating boutique imprint lines and throwing cash at every devil child or haunted house tale, the real truth is that horror fiction continues to chug along – just like it always has. Maybe even under the guise of “commercial fiction.”
But, even more encouraging is the level of talent turning their hands to horror fiction today. Not only the a
mazing new voices that are appearing, but also the work being done by people who have been working in the field for years. I would go so far to suggest that, perhaps, someday, when historians look back to this particular period of time, it may be regarded as the beginning of “renaissance” of horror as an archetype in literature.
There are simply so many talented authors writing stories today, and in so many different styles. And – in a very roundabout way – it leads us to why you’re holding this book in your hands.
Because there are so many interesting things going on in the world of horror fiction, and so many talented folks working at creating memorable stories, it is a great honor to be able share some of that work, in all of the different incarnations that it appears.
Quite simply, Cody Goodfellow writes stories like no one else. While that sort of sentence may be a somewhat tired cliché, in this case, it really and truly applies. Descriptions like “outré,” “boundary-pushing” and “extreme” might be truthfully applied to Cody’s work, and “honest,” “thought-provoking” and “amazing” would be equally appropriate.
From the seeming logical sensibility of the narrator in “Love to Give” to the wry social commentary lurking beneath the surface of “The Weak Sisters Break Out” to the absolutely indescribable “Venus of Santa Cruz” it is obvious that if Cody Goodfellow is a writer of “extreme” stories, then it is as a writer of concomitantly “extreme” ideas – the “thinking person’s extreme writer.”
If Cody Goodfellow’s stories are the feverish embrace of a mad genius, Gemma Files’ are the cool kiss on the forehead from the debauched intellectual. Gemma’s work is once again proof positive that a writer does not have to raise her voice to make an impact just as devastating.
The quiet rationality, the gorgeously-constructed sentences, the obvious intellectual acumen all serve to lull the reader into a false sense of security – which renders the inevitable nastiness all the more powerful. The insane protagonist of “Ring of Fire” is formidable indeed – but perhaps not quite as formidable as the well-spoken narrator. In “Crossing the River” we are confronted with a dizzying array of shifting loyalties, unknown limits of infernal powers and an examination of what exactly might constitute “monsters.” And, in “The Speed of Pain,” we are strapped into a rollercoaster for a journey into a mystery perhaps best left unsolved – and one that we fear is going to end badly for the seekers. What makes these uncommon tales all the more riveting is an uncanny sense of timing and pace – the stories proceed in their quiet, measured manner and the reader is helpless as the sense of unease grows and grows and the sense of dread hanging over the pages becomes a palpable, almost physical presence.
Most of the folks reading this volume will need no introduction to the work of Mort Castle. If you’re discovering Mort’s writing for the first time, you are in for a treat from another master of deceptively-constructed prose. If Gemma Files’ writing quietly insinuates itself into the reader’s brain before blowing everything open like a stick of dynamite, Mort’s approach is equally clever coming from a different angle.
The genial, casual language that could pass for the conversation of a close friend combined with the encyclopedic knowledge of everything from obscure jazz tunes to arcane Hollywood legends creates another comfort zone for the reader, who instantly knows he or she is in the safe hands of a true pro. And that’s when the bottom falls out.
Because Mort writes about music and musicians quite a bit (and happens to be an immensely talented one himself), his work is often compared to pieces of music, and the comparisons are especially apt. In stories like “Bird is Dead,” “Moon on the Water” and “Music on the Michigan Avenue Bridge,”(all related somehow to music, natch) you can see Mort doing the equivalent of tuning up – revving up his engine as he gets ready to really deliver the goods, and the payoff in each of those stories reflects that power. In “I am Your Need” Mort plays a tune about the glitter and glamour of Hollywood in an understated minor key, emphasizing the desperation and fear and outright terror in a sophisticated and wholly compelling voice. And, in “Dreaming Robot Monster,” Mort once again uses his gifts in a clever misdirection – while the reader initially enjoys the amiable riffing on a widely-mocked film, he is actually setting up something much more nasty and contemplative as a coda.
It is difficult these days to find someone who combines “nasty” and “contemplative” consistently as perfectly as Gary A. Braunbeck. Gary’s work continues to receive award after award – and it is certainly easy to understand why. Whether working with the unnerving, implacable unfolding of the surreal “Merge Right” or the in-your-face graphic nastiness of “As It Is In Your Head” (and here’s what should be an obvious tip for readers – whenever the author begins a story with an epigraph from Titus Andronicus, you know things are going to get really ugly and REALLY messy…), Gary’s work combines that clarity of thought and idea with the terrifying that often lurks just under the surface of such clarity. In “Bargain,” he provides a different sort of surreal platform for another provocative idea. And, the increasingly urgency in the narrator’s voice in “…And When It Is Decided The War Is Over” uses that uncomfortably evolving immediacy to guide the reader effortlessly to the devastating conclusion.
And, what could better declare the health and robustness of horror fiction that such a group of seemingly disparate tales from four seemingly disparate writers? But, underneath all of the different styles, there is one clear unifying thread – a fierce and curious intelligence. From Cody to Gemma, Mort to Gary, these are writers with ideas to explore. As widely-varying as the voices may be, it is still intoxicating to be included on these journeys as they follow their ideas to the very darkest places.
Perhaps most promising of all, these four writers represent only a small fraction of the talented folks exploring their own ideas via the trusty and venerable vehicle of horror fiction. If nothing else, that indicates to me that horror, as a “viable” genre, is far from “dead and buried” but is, instead, very much alive and kicking.
Enjoy.
– Bill Breedlove
Chicago, Illinois
May 2009
About Cody Goodfellow
Cody Goodfellow has written three and a half novels: Radiant Dawn, Ravenous Dusk and Perfect Union, and Jake’s Wake with John Skipp.
His award-shunning short fiction has appeared in Cemetery Dance, Black Static, Dark Discoveries and (with Skipp) in Whispers V and Hellboy: Oddest Jobs. He lives in Los Angeles.
Visit his website at www.perilouspress.com.
Venus of Santa Cruz
By Cody Goodfellow
ike the Big Bad Wolf in a city of brick houses, Officer Brad Friendly cruised the fog-swaddled streets of Santa Cruz, huffing and puffing for an excuse to be a cop. 2:37 AM on a Monday: bars already closed without incident, even the most twisted freaks had somewhere to hide.
Friendly coasted through the central bus terminal, a late night agora for drugged-out hippie kids with names like Sky and Grateful, cast-off spawn of parents who never made the jump from hip to yup, brains cooked in a congenital stew of bullshit and bad acid. The last bus from San Francisco nosed into port, disgorged a few tie-dyed freaks, a Mexican in cowboy boots seven sizes too big and a hot blonde coed with a duffel bag who looked lost and in need of a cop.
Friendly waved. “Hi, you need a ride anywhere?” The girl passed through his headlights.
“What, you’re too good to say hi?” leaning out his window, flipping on his searchlight to light her way to the curb, where a blasted orange ‘76 Datsun rustbucket idled. A short redhead, cuter and more stacked than the blonde, climbed out, took her friend’s bag and enfolded her with a deep, tongue-thrashing kiss, unpainted nails tracing a brand on the curve of her girlfriend’s ass for Friendly’s benefit. They got in the car and motored off.
The only thing harder than getting a good bust in Santa Cruz was getting laid. Lesbians from all over the country came to this cloistered ha
ven of clam-bumping, a Mecca for their unfortunate lifestyle choice. Most of the police force was nominally female, big bad bulldaggers who could bench press Friendly and called him “Breeder” or “Rapeman” behind his back. Once or twice he’d tried rounding up a few of the handful of single, straight guys on the force to go to hit the strip clubs in San Jose. To a man, they’d looked at him like he’d proposed they go fuck some cows, and couldn’t wait to report him.
Friendly spotted a white ‘70 VW microbus cruising north on Main Street, weaving the unmistakable waltz of the fucked-up motorist. He followed at a discreet distance to Western Drive, where the streetlights abruptly stopped and Main became Pacific Coast Highway, a lonely, lawless tunnel to the outside world.
The bus was probably on the return leg of a drug run, making for San Francisco with a payload of blotter acid and a bale or two of homegrown dope. Half the town grew pot to sell to the other half. His pigeon was probably stoned into orbit with a fat roach in his beard right now, which he’d eat the moment Friendly kicked the siren. To get probable cause to search the van, he’d have to spook him into reckless driving. Friendly switched off his lights and closed in, ram-bars air-kissing the VW’s bumper in the dark.
Friendly glimpsed a flare of cherry on a joint in the van’s rearview mirror. He snapped on his hi-beams, the siren and the sno-cones all at once. The VW bugged out like a bumblebee in a bell jar, whipping a hard right into a stand of bamboo grass and a drainage ditch.
Friendly jackknifed in alongside the bus and leapt out, hand dancing on his gun. A northbound sedan, also running lights out, whipped around the cruiser at well over eighty and took a glancing bite off the ass-end of the VW, spraying sparks and candy fragments of taillight as it fought for traction, tires screaming flayed strips flying in all directions, lost it and slewed off the road into a tree.
The silvery black night sky was pregnant with mist, individual fat droplets suspended in the air before Friendly’s face. The night and the road became the whole wide world, gossamer threads and blobs of orange marking the edge of town on the horizon. With no one coming or going, the road was the eye of a cyclone.
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