Showing posts with label Ramsey Campbell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ramsey Campbell. Show all posts

Sunday, May 19, 2019

READING DIARY, SUNDAY, MAY 19, 2019


I woke up really late today, sleeping through most of the day. It’s midnight, and the sound of fireworks is cracking through the weighty darkness of the overcast night sky. Haven’t gotten much work or reading done today. Instead, I’ve watched the final episode of Game of Thrones (meh), the newish Will Ferrell movie The House (meh), and a number of Parks and Recreation episodes. I really enjoy that show. I find it comforting and easy to like. Also, Aubrey Plaza and Rashida Jones both break my heart. And then there’s “Ron Swanson”, who is awesome. Aziz Ansari, Adam Scott, Rob Lowe, “Andy”… it’s just a quality show with one of the better post-Seinfeld sitcom ensembles I can think of. And it’s got a really gentle, positive vibe. Anyway, I’m three seasons in, and I’ll watch through until I’m done eating my leftover burrito, then I’ll read another couple stories from Black Wings, and that’ll be enough of that.

***

BLACK WINGS OF CTHULHU 6 (continued)
Twenty-One New Tales of Lovecraftian Horror, Edited by S.T. Joshi

“The Shard”, by Don Webb ~ This is a story about James and Bart, two American cousins and SF dorks whose families toured the UK when they were in their teens. Bart’s mom was a musicologist researching the “Birchester Sound”—an obscure late ‘60’s phenomenon overshadowed by the lads from Liverpool, being a mix of psychedelica and something called Severn Valley folk music—so part of their visit took place in Ramsey Campbell’s North Country Mythos setting of (you guessed it) Birchester and the Severn Valley.

One of the mementos Bart brings back stateside is a green and pink slab of tourmaline spar about four inches long. In the years following their UK tour, Bart’s IQ drops from 186 to 86, and his family has him institutionalized. There's no explanation for this sudden change, and James remains his only friend.

Bart dies in 2015 leaving behind a diary with the word “Glarky” written in it thousands of times and that watermelon tourmaline spar. Except that’s not what it was. James, being a scientist with access to labs, scrapes off a bit to test its makeup. Turns out it's mildly radioactive, made of radium mixed with boron silicate and a strange plastic that resembles DNA. Also, it was artificially extruded. And when you fall asleep with it in your hands… you dream. Amazing dreams. So amazing that James becomes a dream junkie, costing him his relationship, his job, etc.

The shard also records memories and plays them back. James goes through all the Bart recordings. Then he goes through recordings made by some British guy in a Birchester Sound band (the Titus Groans) who, while feasting on dreams/memories, decides to stop eating actual food, and slowly starves to death. Then the dream/memories go back farther… and the grand mystery of the shard’s true origin (among other things) is revealed.

See, it all has to do with an advanced alien civilization on a planetoid city with an ancient, titanic, “Class X” god-thing (the Unnamable) being held in a crystal prison of sorts, and the unavoidable residue of four-dimensional beings existing in a ten-dimensional universe, and it involves gravitons and consciousness and the disease called “religion”. Also, tentacles. And, oh yeah! The shard is, like, an alien armpit wart.

Eventually, it turns out the Unnamable was an early form of the being that eventually evolves into the spiny hallucinogenic space-godling called Gla’aki, and the alien whose dreams James is experiencing (now full-on, as though remembering his own past) has succumbed to the Cult of the Unnamable and secretly plans to drill through the Crystal Trap Door behind which Future Gla’aki is being held on his way to an execution that will NOT take place.

The story ends with James’ fate mirroring Bart’s. It’s an okay story, a good, quick read. And so, just for shits and giggles, I thought I’d put together a list of potential band names for practitioners of the fictional “Birchester Sound” (we already have The Titus Groans). If you come up with some names of your own, please include them in the comments section:

The Goatswood Trio 
Watermelon Tourmaline 
Voice of the Pines
The Syncops
Planet Blink
Paperback Discipline
Canlog'Y
The Herd
Ramsey's Commonplace Band

“The Mystery of the Cursed Cottage”, by David Hambling ~ A locked room mystery set in Seesin’s Copse, a woodsy part of Surrey, England, in the late 1920’s. Granny Attwater, an old lady rumored to be a hundred years old, is evicted from her small cottage home by a new landowner, Mr. Potter. She puts a curse on him then promptly dies. Wanting to prove the curse foolish, Potter publicly vows to spend the weekend alone in the cottage. He locks himself in… and disappears. Now, a police inspector accompanies Mr. Blake, a specialist in paganism, the occult and other such topics, and Mrs. Bellhaven, a Theosophist with “a gift for sensing vibrations”, to the cottage, in order to try and solve the mystery. A series of disturbing events begins with a gruesome discovery that indicates Mr. Potter’s true fate, and culminates with someone meeting their own horrific end, as well as a cameo appearance by the British version of our old friend Brown Jenkin.

“To Court the Night”, by K.A. Opperman ~ By far the best lyric poem of this collection so far (which contains an unprecedented four of them), this Poe-like ode to necrophilia is lush in its imagery and precise in its traditional rhyme-scheme and its flawless iambic pentameter. Great stuff!

Sunday, April 21, 2019

RAMSEY CAMPBELL, MASTER OF SHORT HORROR FICTION: "ALL FOR SALE"

Think this guy can't scare you? Think again.


Last night, I was perusing my collection of horror anthologies—a collection of collections!—when I alighted on The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, from 2002 (and purchased somewhere around that time). Having recently become interested in the fiction of Thomas Ligotti, his name on the cover caught my attention and I flipped to the table of contents.

That's when I spotted it... a Ramsey Campbell story with a title that was altogether new to me!

For context, I've been a fan of Campbell's work since my teens, getting to know him first as one of Stephen King's most talented contemporaries, then as one of the modern masters of Lovecraftian mythos fiction (kind of a backwards “reeling in” of his actual career trajectory). But whatever the subject matter, Campbell is an uncontested master of the short story form, and his inclusion in an anthology is usually reason enough for me to pick it up.  Campbell’s short stories are so well regarded, in fact, that whenever he’s collected, his name usually has pride of place among the first two or three mentioned on the cover.

Not so, for some reason, with this particular edition of Best New Horror. Which is odd, because the story in question, “All For Sale”, is an absolute beast.

I can’t say too much about it, because it’s short and compact and I don’t want to spoil any aspect of it for you. Suffice it to say that "All For Sale" is goddamn terrifying. An incredibly effective slice of all-too-possible life… the way the bottom can drop out from underneath you in one sickening moment, the way the rational mind can sometimes have trouble keeping up with the reality of a horrifying situation... the mounting tension, the unforgiving hopelessness that resolves into a visceral dread... it's a fucking masterpiece.

In trying to think why this story hasn't been more widely anthologized, I kept coming up blank. It's lean, it's mean, it works like gangbusters, and it packs a powerful punch, the kind that bruises for days... It’s got everything you would think anthology editors love about short genre fiction. Also, it’s got deep literary roots, which, if I elaborate, will give away too much, so for now, I won’t. And so, for now, as far as I can tell, the only two places you can find it are in the above-mentioned Best New Horror (2002) and in a prohibitively expensive and difficult to come by all-Campbell collection, Told by the Dead (2003).

Or, thanks to Google Books’ inability to go through every single anthology in their system to make sure that complete stories don’t slip through their random-page-omission method of “respecting” publishers’ copyright claims… you can read it here and now, on the web, for free.

I recognize that this is not ideal, particularly for Mr. Campbell, who—despite being widely and justifiably recognized as a leading figure in horror, or dark fantasy, or “the weird”, or whatever nomenclature has been assigned to this most primal and powerful of literary forms of late—is not immune from the vicissitudes of fiscal fortune. However, seeing as I am not responsible for Google’s boo-boo in this instance, and seeing as I believe Campbell’s work (in general and this piece, specifically) is of such high quality that anyone reading it is all but certain to seek out more of it—via venues that are more financially remunerative for author and publishers both—I feel justified in pointing it out.


Enjoy! And, if you’re new to the work of Ramsey Campbell… you’re welcome.

Sincerely,
Yer old pal Jerky