Cemetery Dance #47

Cemetery Dance Magazine
Cemetery Dance Publications
$6

Magazines are odd birds to review. Do you review the overall publication, take it story by story, hit the art and content? I've decided on a mixture of some of the above. Mostly, I ramble, but I will cover the fiction and mention other content as I go. Long time Cemetery Dance magazine readers might find themselves nodding along with me—others might be irritated, but that goes with the territory of saying what you think, I think. If you are not familiar with CD—go to the above site and do yourself the favor of partaking of at least one issue. Also, while you're there, check out the wide variety of fine limited, hardcover and trade paperback books. Heck, check out my own novella, Roll Them Bones. Tell 'em I sent you.

PART THE FIRST: David Schow interview followed by an excerpt from Bullets of Rain his new novel.

This is a great interview. Schow has the gift of putting things into a no-bullshit perspective. He has a career absolutely RIDDLED with experience, film, television, novels, and through this all—he likes to be considered a short story writer. I like that. Short stories are my own first love, but many people cannot write them. Many others, after turning to novels, can never get back to short form properly, and end up with skeletal stories with characters and plots screaming for fat they will never have, like a reverse Atkins diet gone mad.

Anyway—I don't see the sense in reviewing an interview, because it is what it is. Let's say I enjoyed it. I've known Dave, or known of him—been acquainted with him—etc., since (going into the way-back machine) the days of Skipp and Spector's meteoric rise in horror and the WHC where they all strutted around in black leather and looked about a thousand times cooler than the fandom surrounding them, lending it all a sort of Lost Boys feel. The Splat Pack (grin). But I age myself.

The story/excerpt is titled "Storm Drain." As a story, I don't think this stands up well at all, but I also don't believe this is its purpose. It drew me in. I want to know about the impending storm. I want to know why he thinks he hit a zebra, or who/what he actually hit that left zebra fur on his bumper. I want to know why the publisher (this goes back to the interview) changed the title to Bullets of Rain. The writing is good, the character is 100 percent authentic in feel, which is important. What I 'm saying is this, it is the perfect review/excerpt setup.

PART THE SECOND—NOT:

This was going to be comments on Bev Vincent's column on Stephen King, but I'm not going there. I'm sure it's me, but I don't see the need for five to seven pages of news on Stephen King happening every time an issue of this magazine comes out. I may come back and read Bev Vincent's Stephen King column, but will likely be well into the fiction from next issue before I have a chance. I LIKE Stephen King. I like the Gunslinger series more than I should. I don't think he's so much more important he should have a column written about him, but that's neither here nor there. If you want it, it's there.

PART THE SECOND:

"Araneida"

By Harry Shannon


This is a story that has a lot going on in a very short number of pages. Most of what is going on is very intriguing, in fact, and there are a couple of encounters that remind me very much of Stephen King in say—"Rainy Season" or "Chattery Teeth"—which was also published in Cemetery Dance.

Here's the problem, though. There is way TOO much going on. You have spooky folks who you meet on the way. You have a mysterious grandfather—who you get part of the scoop on but not enough to drive home the terror-that-should-be. You have the father/step-daughter relationship (tough chemistry) and then you have . . . well, it's just too short to support it all. It reads far too much like the skeleton of something, and—for me—leaves too much unanswered. Perhaps fleshed out to novella length, it could be powerful.

PART THE THIRD:

"The Marybell Women"

By T. M. Wright


Every once in a while I read a story that makes me go immediately back through and read it again. This is such a story. I was about halfway through when my mind kicked in and said uh oh—pay attention. It was too late, and so I started over.

There are several layers in this story, and I'm going to digress at least once as I sift through them. First off, this is a very well paced story with some sideslips that will catch you by surprise (thus the starting over). This is a ghost story with some traditional elements, but with stylistic elements to lead you astray, like a will-o'-the-wisp drawing you off into the swamp.

There is an underlying theme of a writer and his wife. The wife does not understand the story, or the need to find/complete/own the story. The wife is the story, or becomes it. The story isn't a story, or is it? Characters never keep their names.

Thoughts and Images that stick: Four bodies in one grave, decomposing into one another (which made me think of the graves in New Orleans where there is a grate that slides out. You put the new body on the grate, and—hopefully—by the time the next body needs to go in, the last one has pretty much rotted away to bones and sifted into the ancestors/bodies/bone-dust below). A cracked tombstone. Breath scented with peanuts, leaves, meat and time.

This is a wonderfully thoughtful story, well-crafted and not too long for its purpose. Too often fiction is fleshed out to meet maximum word counts and bigger paychecks. This story ends where and as it should and leaves you wondering what is the temperature of bone?

PART THE FOURTH:

"The Forgotten"

By William P. Simmons


"The Forgotten" is a very stylistic piece. The author has obviously given the subject of the future some thought, and spent his share of time in the worlds of academia. Though this is from the perspective of a teacher of many years, this theme could be applied to most lives and most professions if the protagonist of the tale cares about the future.

This is a well crafted, if possibly slightly over-written story. The language is rich and the images practically drip from the pages. Of course, some readers look at this sort of fiction and say EUGH! PUDDLES—but I like the dripping-with-atmosphere imagery a lot. It shows a masterful grasp of language and an imagination that can take the world and reduce it to the images that will transfer if from one person's mind to the next. That is a gift.

Of course, one will never know if the images work the same for the reader as they did for the writer, but you won't walk away from this story without thinking back over people you've known and forgotten.and making the reader think. That is also rare.

Images that Stick: Air like flypaper Snippets of real-world sanity slipping into a crumbling mind and seeming t be the crumbled parts. The question "Why Didn't You Do Something?"

PART THE FIFTH:

"The Two Deaths"

By Edo van Belkom


Let me preface this by saying that I have come to the conclusion over the years that there are a number of types of horror fiction that just don't work for me, but that have huge followings. Thus the notion comes to mind, yet again, that reviews are subjective. Now that all of that has been said, I really didn't much care for this story.

I find the premise, to begin with, a little hard to swallow. I can see where the action that did take place COULD happen, but the writing did not convince me that it did. I found the protagonist about as loathsome as they come—which, admittedly, a lot of people like. There is a sort of black humor in the piece, particularly in the ending, but for me the writing didn't carry it. I've read a lot of Edo's work, and this actually has the feel of some of his early stories, rather than the more polished things of later years, but that could just be the type of story, and my own perception.

The interview preceding is interesting, but one is left wondering how in god's name one comes from wanting to write like Ray Bradbury to The Two Deaths (The story). Robert Bloch is also mentioned, and the story leans more in that direction, but for me, a little too raunchy and in your face, and a little too unbelievable in characterization.

PART THE SIXTH:

REFLECTIONS OF . . .

By Gary Braunbeck


This is a moody piece. There are layers to it that are peeled away slowly as you read it. It's almost like someone has taken a photograph, placed it on a light board, and then, one at a time, added filters over the top. Each filter blocks out some part of the picture that you thought was really there, until at last you have the final picture. Very bleak, stark, and moving.

Images that stick: Cookies and milk with bugs crawling over their carcasses. Chivas in a tumbler. A spilled juice bottle.

This is a powerful little piece. It seems less significant, I think, than it is, because it reads very quickly and the mood it leaves makes you want to either put the magazine down and walk away for a while, or hurry on to something else . . . like shaking it off mentally. Won't work. I still recall it as if I'd read it only moments ago.
This is one of the two best stories in the issue.

INTERMISSION:


Careful readers of CD will notice that I am skipping over columns, reviews, etc. Though I'd love to spawn a long debate on my old pal Tom Monteleone's MAFIA column, I won't if I can help it. I will note in passing that I have been the victim of the same things he is talking about in this column—journalists who seem to be listening, but really aren't part of the writing "world" and don't really "get it" whether they seem to or not. The results can be comical (as long as the story is about Tom and his article, and not about yourself) That is the magic of his column. Lots of crazy things happen, but all to Tom.

PART THE LAST:

"Number 121 to Pennsylvania"

By Kealan Patrick Burke


I love a good folk tale. Most of those of you who know me are aware of my love of the works of Manly Wade Wellman that are often folk tales set in the mountains of North Carolina. Most modern fiction is different from that sort of tale. Modern readers crave introspection from the author and from the characters they create. We want to know what makes them tick, how the sweat feels and tastes and drips down their skin beneath their clothing, and, by the way, what sort of clothing would that be, exactly?

We also crave suspension of disbelief at levels it was once not necessary to produce. What I mean is, a story used to stand just as that—a tall tale, something for the campfire. You looked at the person telling it and knew he might, or might not believe it, but the story of the actual supernatural event was more matter-of-fact. The author was allowed to tell, rather than show, which is diametrically opposed to the common modern schools.

What you will find in "Number 121 to Pennsylvania" is a sort of quaint blending of generations. You have a degenerating mind, guilt over childhood trauma, relationships between characters that are worthy of any modern horror story—but you also have that old take it or leave it, this is what happened tale of the Night Train—the Black Train that comes for us all—a train that has rolled smoking and belching through more pages and nightmares than I'd care to guess at—and it reads like a visit from an old friend.

There is some genuine terror building in the scenes along the tracks and in the woods, and the echoing cry of memories that will neither be still, nor surface, but the actual supernatural happening is like the old days—it happens. No explanation, really—and could it all be in the man's mind? Read and decide for yourself.

I thought this was a great end piece for the magazine, showing some thought in placement. It is good closure for this issue of Cemetery Dance. So—with that:

Images that stick: Rusted rails being pulled up and removed. A young boy with a radio listening to Heartbreak Hotel as an impossible train whistle blows. A boy named Rusty. . . .

Now, go buy an issue of Cemetery Dance and read for yourself.

Anyone wanting the complete random thoughts of my deranged mind on this subject and many others should check out my live, on-line ramblings at: http://www.livejournal.com/users/deep_bluze/