Blood of the Muse

"The Garden" by James Dorr (Damnation Books)

2010-03-09T22:17:00.000-08:00

The Garden
James Dorr
48 pp. Damnation Books. $6.99
Pub. Date: 9/1/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1615720149

Worms. They’re completely overlooked, the Ann B. Davis of the insect world; their brilliance criminally underappreciated. Slimy, wiggly, sometimes parasitic; they’re seemingly a writer’s dream. (Just don’t mention your worm dreams to Freud.) Yet they get passed over, ignored, for the glamour bugs, the sexy bugs, the va-va-voom bugs like spiders and bees; bugs a author can turn out, putting them in high heels, cherry-red lipstick and a push-up bra, before sending them out on the streets to collect wolf-whistles like a five year old stockpiles Legos.

But worms aren’t sexy, they’re plain meets Jane. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a face. Hard to compliment something without a face, makes eye contact difficult. And complimenting them on nice ganglia isn’t going to induce a swoon and win you Lothario points. No worm has ever fallen into someone’s arms, flush with excitement, batting their photoreceptors, while whispering, Oh, you silver-tongued devil.

So who really thinks about worms? Maybe five year olds, the ones troweling up dirt, practicing the long-forgotten art of making mud pies, daring each other to snort an earthworm for that Annelida high. And zoologists who study invertebrates. After that it’s slim pickings on the Jenny Craig diet. Worms just aren’t something people think about. Even though they are everywhere, in everything. Microscopic critters living in our food, our bodies, as well as our world.

James Dorr thinks about worms, though. Thinks enough about these underappreciated invertebrates to put them in The Garden. Didn’t think about worms before? You will after reading this clever novella; in fact, it’ll be hard to get them out afterwards. They’ll burrow into your mind, leaving an indelible mark on your consciousness. And that’s what good horror does, it leaves scar tissue. It leaves you trembling in the wake of a worm, badly dubbed English streaming out of your mouth.

While hiking the Hoosac mountains, graduate student Steven Kerridge stumbles across a wondrous farm that has the most amazing garden he’s ever seen. This bountiful garden is even more incredible because the surrounding land is blighted and infested with weeds, making the farm a surprising oasis in the region. The farm is tended by Alma Sharp, a reclusive young woman who has lived there alone since the death of her parents.

Intrigued by the garden and the scholarly materials left behind by Alma’s father, a famous zoologist whose work Steven is using for his thesis, he decides to stay at the farm for a few days, helping Alma with chores, while studying her father’s work at night. Slowly Steven realizes that the farm and Alma aren’t quite what they seem to be. (Cue the suspense music.)

Despite some passages of exposition which clunk like an angry bear in a Williams-Sonoma store, The Garden works. Works because it has an idea so big, Plato would be impressed (and by extension Socrates would be too); it’s an idea so good, it can’t be screwed up. Even with a pack of stupidity screwdrivers or the drill motor of dumb-assed-ness. (Thankfully, Dorr has neither of these.) The biochemistry in the novella is absolutely fascinating, filled with cool tidbits that’ll have you silently mouthing Wow!, immensely satisfying your inner science geek. This is fun science; it’s even more fun than that one time in lab where the kid you hated burned a swatch of hair off his knuckles.

But the best part is the ending. And it’s not because the book ended before my eyes bled out. No, the ending is fantastic, wildly unpredictable and truly stunning. When I can’t see the ending coming at all, that’s a good ending. (Unless, of course, the resolution is either incredibly odd or mind-numbingly stupid. That’s not stunning; that’s just odd or stupid.)

Oddly, the payoff in The Garden is infinitely better than the setup; the ending really makes it. Everything else is solid, if unspectacular. Steven and Alma are decent characters, just not memorable. Overall, The Garden is a mixed bag; it’s a solid story leading up to an unforgettable conclusion.

Final Grade: 70 out of 100

Collector's Corner - Richard Kadrey

2010-03-08T19:29:00.000-08:00

Sandman Slim rocked. And I don't mean rocked like geriatric geezers in Spandex so tight you can ascertain their religion. No, Richard Kadrey's novel is pure punk. Sneering, mean and iconoclastic; it's arson meets poetry. It's burning down the world, one word at a time. Definitely worth the scribble, if you can get it.

"The Somnambulist" by Jonathan Barnes (William Morrow)

2010-03-04T23:30:00.000-08:00

The Somnambulist
Jonathan Barnes
368 pp. William Morrow. $23.95
Pub. Date: 2/5/2008
ISBN-13: 978-0061375385

My dear reader, I must forewarn you before it becomes too late. Before you have stumbled into a morass of inane literary criticism from which you can not extricate yourself. This review is offensive, insipid and completely devoid of intelligence. It has no value, no critical merit; it is the dung of God’s lowest creature. Please dear reader, heed my warning. Quickly shut your eyes, plunge these misguided ramblings into the fire, and bask in your salvation. Lift your arms to the sky and let the warm light of Our Savior fill your heart.

For the strong-willed fools, or the criminally insane, who shall persevere in reading this missive, I only ask you of one thing. If women or children are in the room as you read this, ask them politely to leave. Let their souls remain innocent and playful, like nymphs splashing and cavorting in the shallows of Lake Edersee. Some discussions are best left for the company of gentlemen, not because of their sternness of character, but rather because of the utter lack of common sense which plagues the masculine gender. Stupidity is our saving grace.

For those foolhardy enough to continue, I fervently pray for you. My only solace is that my nonsensical blabbering will end shortly, which hopefully will limit the terrible scarring done to your soul. If however you wish damage onto my person after reading this letter, pray I remind you that you’ve been warned.

Where to begin? I daresay, the beginning. Utterly cliché, I admit, but you have been warned of the lacking nature of your narrator, of the utter drivel that would spew forth from my quill. Do you now comprehend the lowness of my character? There is still time to stop and turn away; salvation beckons, grab her hand.

We have only just reached the beginning and already I digress. It will likely not be the last time, fair reader. (I shall attempt to keep them to a minimum, though.)

Now let us take The Somnambulist. I speak here of the book, and not the inscrutable man for whom this work was named; I shall talk of him shortly in good time. This literary oddity, authored by a Mssr. Jonathan Barnes, lately a resident of London (whether he is housed upon a ward or not, I could not tell you, dear reader), is disgustedly entertaining, a pleasure I’m reluctant to admit, for polite society would likely view this work as twisted. Mssr. Barnes possesses an incredibly vivid imagination; in fact, it is a rather queer imagination, one which makes me question whether Mssr. Barnes is a gentleman of respectable standing. I do not wish to impugn his reputation (which by all accounts is sterling), but he writes of fantastical (and disreputable) things in which most gentleman would not be so well versed. To wit, in this literary excursion there is most hideous murder, there are worshippers of false idols, and there is (I shudder to even write these words; may Our Savior forgive me) a man who has congress with bearded ladies. (I shall pause why you regain your composure.)

That man happens to be conjurer Edward Moon, a man of extraordinary talents; a man with a mind so shrewd he’s able to unravel the most confounding mysteries. The conundrum is but a child’s toy to him. But despite these unrivaled gifts, Edward would never succeed without his loyal confidante and friend, the impervious Somnambulist. What type of being the Somnambulist is I dare not speculate (however, I sincerely doubt he is a man), for he can receive great violence on his person and suffer no ill effects. Stab him with a sword, pierce his heart, yet he does not bleed. I could proclaim witchcraft at this point, throw up my hands in supplication and pray for forgiveness, but even Mssr. Barnes would not promote such evil arts in a book made generally available (no Englishman would, it’s unfathomable.)

Soon, dear reader, the most depraved murder is committed, a man is thrown to his death from a tower; the villain who perpetrated this foul, dark act vanishes without a trace. The constabulary is confounded, witchcraft may be assumed, so they turn to Edward Moon and the able-bodied Somnambulist in their desperation. Naturally Moon employs his prodigious talents for the good of the state; he is not a rapscallion or degenerate (unlike the characters in those tasteless bodice-rippers penned by Madam Jane Austen. For shame Madam. My only solace is her works will be forgotten in ten years.) However during the course of his investigation Moon discovers a plot most insidious, one that threatens the very pinnacle of civilization, our fair city, London (Pray do not claim this to our prodigal colonists for they will vociferously disagree with this fact, being the obnoxious and ungrateful savages they are. America. Mark my words, in twenty years, they will come back, hat in hand, to the Empire.)

Mssr. Barnes writes with tremendous vigor and aplomb, crafting an entertaining story, despite some low subject matter. The language wonderfully approximates a faux Victorian style, complete with clever asides and a conversing narrator. Mssr. Barnes, though, does write situations which seem incongruous and mind-boggling, almost to the point of surrealism. (Please, this is England Mssr. Barnes, leave the –isms to the French.) Often, as I read, the narrative struck me as odd for the sake of being odd.

The first two acts of The Somnambulist are quite fetching; I’m wary to admit, I even guffawed occasionally; it is the third act where I felt the need to walk out of the theater, in a slightly indignant huff. Mssr. Barnes’s hand at this point is too evident, the narrative becoming too contrived. Only our Lord’s hand should wield such power. I found myself greatly disappointed in the outcome, much like taking spirits with the gentlemen after a fine dinner, only to discover the conversation insipid and dull. With a heavy heart, I write these words: the ending, gold in hand, wouldn’t have even pleased one of our city’s notoriously undiscriminating harlots. (Being a proper gentleman who does not fraternize with these unseemly creatures, I could never validate this claim.)

Though a sinful deviant, Edward Moon is a wonderfully intriguing study, a man who I’d love to share a cigar and snifter of brandy with as he regaled me with his incredible adventures. The Somnambulist, though, was an utter mystery to me; one I craved more of throughout the course of the narrative. Moon’s sister was, unfortunately, nothing more than a superficial plot device, never offering any enlightenment of her brother’s soul.

Mssr. Barnes displays great promise, (For those who claim I am predisposed to my countrymen, I would say this even if Mssr. Barnes was a repugnant American), a vivid imagination, and a pleasing writing style. But like the tragedies of master playwright Shakespeare, events get messy in the third act. However, unlike the tragedies of master playwright Shakespeare, the third act is unfortunately disappointing.

Final Grade: 67 out of 100

"Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story" by Christian Saunders (Damnation Books)

2010-03-02T22:06:00.001-08:00

Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story
Christian Saunders
64 pp. Damnation Books. $7.25
Pub. Date: 9/1/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1615720101

Say you have a ghost haunting your house, a really annoying one, like more annoying than Adam Sandler after a few hits of helium. It does all the clichéd stuff, rattling chains, going bump in the night, running the washing machine when you’re trying to sleep. (Deep-six the Maytag, Casper, or things won’t be so friendly for you.) It rampages through your linen closet, cutting eyeholes in your sheets, ticking you off. Really if it’s going to be the harbinger of the linen apocalypse, couldn’t it haunt the Bed, Bath and Beyond down the street.

You can’t blame the ghost though; it clearly has nothing better to do in its retirement years than to collect Social Security checks and to hide your stuff. If you were stuck in someone’s house for an eternity, how long could you go before you started messing with them? Ten minutes. Tops. Before hiding the Cocoa Puffs becomes great fun.

Eventually the horns of a dilemma are reached, occasionally with the bull still attached, tenderizing your backside. It’s either you or the ghost. Preferably the ghost, because, hey, you like your house; it’s got great acoustics. So you put on your kick-the-pesky-poltergeist-the-hell-out-of-your-house pants, zip up, and go all Sylvester Stallone on the wayward spirit. And then you realize, you don’t know the first thing about ghost busting. And you don’t know who to call. So you stick it out, ineffectively fighting back, all because you’re too lazy to sell your house. You don’t need the Ghost Hunters; you need a real estate agent and a U-Haul.

But it wouldn’t be much of a ghost story if people didn’t stay. House tells them, in that manly house voice, to get out, and they think, how quaint. Then their kid gets sucked into a TV, and they’re stuck hiring a midget gypsy to get her out, meanwhile they pull out their hair, screaming: Why didn’t we leave when we had a chance?

Answer: You were too lazy to sell your house. Now it’s too late. Have fun searching for your Cocoa Puffs.

Jerry doesn’t even own a house; he’s just renting a nifty apartment in Beijing. Apartment 14F. Only recently arrived in China, he’s just started a new job, teaching conversational English to teenagers. But soon he’ll become fluent in another language—the language of terror. (Chills. Meet Spine.) Plagued by terrible dreams, Jerry soon notices odd happenings in his apartment. Supernatural happenings. Cocoa Puffs gone astray. What’s a poor ESL teacher with a ghost-infested apartment to do?

If you said: Move. You’ve been listening. Gold star for you. Does he move? Of course not. Christian Saunders’s Apartment 14F is a ghost story; moving is not an option. No, Jerry is going Muhammad Ali on some ghostly keister here, intent on getting to the bottom of this mystery quicker than you can say Velma.

Saunders needs to be credited for doing a professional and credible job in this short novella. His portrayal of China and its culture is top-notch, and easily the most interesting aspect of the story. I would have loved to have read more about Jerry’s interaction with the local people and customs.

The ghost story itself pales in comparison; it’s rather weak and lacking imagination except for one killer dream sequence and an unforgettable encounter with a fortune teller who gives Jerry a little too much tongue (and it’s not what you think.) An overabundance of exposition really counteracts any suspense in the book; there is no build up, making the ending seem feeble, packing about as much punch as a flatulent mosquito.

Jerry and his assistant Yin Tao are vividly drawn by Saunders, and the other characters are nicely done. I never felt an emotional connection to Jerry’s plight, though. So I was never more than a disinterested observer, knowing almost intuitively where events were going.

Other than the setting, there really isn’t anything intriguing about Apartment 14F; it’s solid work by Saunders. But that’s it.

Final Grade: 57 out of 100

"The Extra" by Michael Shea (Tor)

2010-03-01T21:44:00.000-08:00

The Extra
Michael Shea
288 pp. Tor. $22.99
Pub. Date: 2/2/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0765324351

Hollywood. The land of glitz and glamour, of sparkle and sizzle; the “Hollywood” sign preening itself on a hill overlooking the city, basking in the golden richness of its domain, which lies exposed like the throat of a submissive dog. Where the homeless sleep on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, tourists nudging them aside to get a photo of Chuck Norris’s star, waiting. (He was genius in Missing in Action!) Nearby a madman screams at an ATM machine, that sympathetically beeps back, while another group of tourists huddle over a star, murmuring: Leslie Nielsen? Surely you aren’t serious? Serious indeed, serious as Erik Estrada’s star residing in front of an anal bleaching salon, the Spinctorium, just around the corner.

Hollywood. The graveyard of dreams. Where out of work actors wait tables in the local sushi joint, hoping for that big break, hoping to be discovered. To be plucked out of this zoo of humanity, and elevated—into a movie star. Everyday as they return home to their cramped apartment, undiscovered, unimportant, a part of their dream dies, passing with a whimper. Thirty years later, still waiting tables in the same sushi restaurant, the dream is dead, only a vacant shell left behind asking me if I want some Nihonshu with my meal. If Disneyland, fifty miles to the south, is the place where dreams come true, Hollywood would be its anus—the place dreams go to get flushed. Hope’s final resting stop.

Still the wannabe starlets dream, might even pray if there was a church in the Hollywood city limits. If only there was something they could do, some way to distinguish themselves, to rise out of the muck that is their life.

And then a billboard appears, big bold letters scrawled across it as if it was written by some divine hand: Extras Wanted. This billboard, lurking over the 101 freeway, is salvation. And it is also almost certain death.

Being an extra in a movie could net you hundreds of thousands of dollars, enough to escape the city, maybe start up a pig farm out in the 909. Being an extra could also get you killed, fast, and in horrible ways. Chances are, overwhelmingly, you’ll get killed. But it’s worth it, even with a slim chance at survival. That’s how bad life is in the Zoo; it’s worth wagering your life to get out.

So on the appointed day, you kiss your loved ones goodbye, head on down to Panoply Studios, and sign up to be an extra on their latest “live death” extravaganza, Alien Hunger. See, movies have evolved, audiences expect more now, more bang for the buck, more carnage from their celluloid. They expect real deaths, hundreds of them, the more brutal and gory the better. And that’s where you and your fellow extras come in—to die graphically on film, limbs torn asunder courtesy of specially devised killing machines called APPs (Anti-Personnel Properties). Which are big, ugly, vicious mechanical spiders in the case of Alien Hunger. Kill any of these spiders and you’ll earn yourself big money, survive the entire shoot and you’ll earn even bigger money. Maybe even enough to start that pig farm.

Want one word to summarize Michael Shea’s The Extra—brilliant. Like cackling mad scientist, Tesla coils humming in the background brilliant, a heady brew of rapturous glee mixed with malicious intelligence. It’s Swiftian satire written for a reality TV world; the true Amazing Race, where losers go home in a two-ply Hefty bag. Shea writes with an ever present wink and a smirk for his audience, lampooning rich targets like reality TV, the Hollywood system, and socio-economic injustice in America. What would otherwise be a bleak, dismal imagining of the near future, Shea fills with energy and hope; it’s giddiness bottled, the feeling you get seeing the underdog win. Pure literary magic.

Moving quicker than a heart attack suffered by a Chicago Bears fan, The Extra is non-stop entertainment, with action more combustible than a trailer park meth lab. Even though the characters are running around a small city set, trying to survive for the majority of the book, the action never dulls, never feels redundant. Shea keeps events fresh, shocking, and wilder than a Girls Gone Wild: Nymphomaniac Edition DVD.

A huge heart beats at the center of the novel, exemplified by bros-for-life Curtis and Japh who both decide to risk their lives as extras on Alien Hunger. Their relationship, as well as their newly-formed friendships with other characters, is strengthened throughout The Extra. The stress under fire they undergo, not unlike warfare, makes for engaging interactions and bonding between the characters. It’s very similar to the adage that people fighting together form unique bonds, lifetime bonds. Unbreakable bonds. Trust and respect come much easier to someone that’s saved your life, repeatedly.

Want another word to summarize The Extra—how about read it now. I lied, that’s three words. Point is. Read. It. Now. Mug me, mug a friend, mug a Walmart greeter, just get this book. Make the sacrifice, wager the time. And do I need to remind you, there are mechanical spiders. Mechanical spiders!

One of the best books of this year. Or any other year.

Final Grade: 90 out of 100

"Where Angels Fear to Tread" by Thomas E. Sniegoski (Roc)

2010-02-24T21:42:00.001-08:00

Where Angels Fear to Tread
Thomas E. Sniegoski
304 pp. Roc. $14.00
Pub. Date: 3/2/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0451463142

Let’s get biblical, let’s talk about Angels. And not the ones with baseball mitts on their hands and a Rally Monkey on their back. No, these Angels play for another team, Heaven’s Sluggers, owned and managed by the Big Divinity himself; it’s the team most Angels spend their entire career with. Forget free agency, no team can offer bigger bucks or higher visibility. But maybe an enterprising angel decides they want to try humanity on like a pair of pressed khaki Dockers, burying their angelic nature under the threadbare cloak of mortality. Turning in their wings to become human and putting their halo six feet under.

Almost. They still get to keep their wings along with some pretty nifty parlor tricks, their heavenly DNA corked up like a genie in a bottle, waiting to be unleashed. Then maybe a day comes along when they find themselves in an unpalatable situation, when danger’s about to French kiss them, and they pull the cork, effectively releasing two tons of Heaven’s fury up alongside danger’s head, sending it whimpering and scuttling back into a dark corner.

And like the genie, the angel loves being free, loves being in control, its desire for freedom burning hot with Napalm intensity. And once the angel has had a little tasty-taste of heaven’s power, it doesn’t want to be put back in the bottle, doesn’t want to be stuck in a dead end job with humanity as their boss. Nobody puts this baby in the corner. Yet back in the bottle it goes. Sometimes. Because it takes a strong man to put the angel down.

A man like Remy Chandler, the world’s second favorite Remy after that Martin character. An angel slumming in the guise of humanity. And what does an earthbound, humanity-embracing angel do for a career? Why become a detective; solve cases, find missing people. Or more specifically, handle cases that border on the weird and tiptoe through the mythological; cases no cop or other detective could comprehend.

Like his latest case: a sick young girl abducted by her father; her mother desperate for Remy’s help. But Zoe isn’t like normal six year olds, she has the special ability to foresee the future, documenting her visions with a box of Crayolas and paper. Including a drawing of the man who will try to save her, a man with wings, a man that can only be Remy Chandler.

Where Angels Fear to Tread is a fast-paced, detective noir fantasy, both refreshingly gritty and imaginative, a dark realism mixed with intriguing fantastical elements. Realism and urban fantasy aren’t often bedmates, but author Thomas E. Sniegoski gets them to cohabitate in Where Angels Fear to Tread. If angels really wore a human guise, Remy Chandler acts and thinks like you’d probably imagine. Sniegoski’s ability to ground his fantastical narrative in a somewhat believable reality is well-executed, right up their with Charlie Huston’s fantastic work in the Joe Pitt series. It’s an exciting noir-flavored world with a grittiness that feels like chomping on sandpaper, a beautifully crafted world that I’d definitely like to revisit.

Sniegoski cribs freely from Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files playbook, though he amps up the violence and cuts much of the humor. Chuckles are rare, while the atmosphere is dark and brooding. The detective aspects of the story were underwhelming; Remy’s case is just too straightforward and linear. There really wasn’t much to it, nothing that dropped your jaw on the floor or made you check your undergarments. I would have loved a better mystery at the heart of the novel; it’s just not there.

Make no mistake, Where Angels Fear to Tread is a solid fantasy noir with nice characterization and an intriguing pseudo-realistic urban fantasy feel. It’s just missing that story that punches you in the face, the one that shocks and offends you. Missing the story that spits in your eye and steals all your lunch money while cackling evilly; a nasty, brutish devil of a narrative. Because every angel needs a demon to cause trouble and give them a hell of a time. Remy sure could have used one here.

Final Grade: 70 out of 100

Winner of the Drood Giveaway

2010-02-24T21:38:00.000-08:00

I have a winner to announce in the Drood Giveaway. The winner will receive a copy of Drood by Dan Simmons, courtesy of Hachette Book Group.

So if I can get a drumroll...

The winner is: Laura Gerold from Wisconsin. Congratulations Laura! Enjoy!

Thanks to everyone who entered!

"The Light of Burning Shadows" by Chris Evans (Pocket)

2010-02-22T22:50:00.000-08:00

The Light of Burning Shadows
Chris Evans
384 pp. Pocket. $26.00
Pub. Date: 7/28/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1416570530

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

Elves. They’re the epic fantasy equivalent of the ubiquitous urban fantasy vampire. Alien, pale, brooding, occasionally sparkly. (Dwarves, on the other hand, tend towards werewolves, both breeds hirsute and odor-challenged.) Elves can run the gamut from monstrous, sneering pointy-eared balls of evil and malice to the cute and cuddly tree-hugging, drives-a-VW-van-with-a-peace-sign-painted-on-the-roof variety that appears to be straight out of a Build-A-Bear store. They cause serious heart palpitations in role-playing game geeks. The even cooler sounding and looking dark elves have these same gamers involuntarily geysering all manners of bodily fluids.

And like vampires, the majority of authors who incorporate elves in their novels do them wrong. Making them more cringe-inducing than an Eddie Murphy movie. Making them as cool as your parents were when you were a teenager and your friends came over. (Mom, put away the Yahtzee! And do you have to fold my underwear now?)

Occasionally though, a teenager gets a rock star for a parent, an icon of pure bitchin-ness, a rental unit who’s cooler than a six pack of Clearasil to his puberty-wrecked friends. And sometimes a writer gets elves right, or at least, doesn’t get them horribly wrong.

Now Chris Evans doesn’t reach an Ozzy-as-your-Dad level of coolness with his elves; he’s just below that, but his characterization is also no where near a Vanilla-Ice-as-your-Dad level of ineptitude either. For the most part, Evans’s elves are pretty badass.

Evans’s A Darkness Forged in Fire, the first volume of the Iron Elves saga, was a solid, entertaining book mainly held together by some nice characterization and intriguing world building. But I was disappointed in the wandering-through-the-woods nature of the storyline which ultimately left me underwhelmed. Evans clearly showed promise; A Darkness Forged in Fire just wasn’t the book that fulfilled it.

So did The Light of Burning Shadows, the second volume in the series, better fulfill the promise Evans showed in A Darkness Forged in Fire?

The answer is clearly yes. The Light of Burning Shadows is a significant improvement, particularly in terms of plot, to the previous book. Where A Darkness Forged in Fire felt clichéd, The Light of Burning Shadows feels fresh and imaginative, like Evans created an entirely new and interesting world which is both convincingly dangerous and mysterious. The world building is quite adequate; especially considering it’s not the focus of the book.

Tremendous pacing keeps the action moving, and the battle scenes don’t suffer from the redundancy that the battles in the first book did. The action scenes are kept short and concise; detailed description is sacrificed for pacing. Those who enjoy detailed battle descriptions will be disappointed by the abrupt nature of most of the confrontations in The Light of Burning Shadows. This abruptness has the tendency to make the battles, particularly the final one, seem anti-climatic.

Characterization is still Evans’s strong point, and his work in The Light of Burning Shadows is solid. Konowa Swift Dragon and Private Alwyn Renwar, in particular, are multi-faceted, introspective and intriguing; both of their character arcs are the hook that drags the reader through the novel. That said, because of a growing darkness infesting the hearts and minds of both Konowa and Renwar, it can be slightly unpleasant to read about them. Overall Evans adopts a darker tone in The Light of Burning Shadows, and it’s a bold choice. It will be intriguing to see where Evans takes the story from here.

The Light of Burning Shadows like its predecessor is a solid, entertaining fantasy novel. Evans’s writing is much improved, showing off a more imaginative plot as well as successfully introducing a darker, more adult tone. What keeps The Light of Burning Shadows from achieving greatness is the lack of detailed battle descriptions, which makes the final battle feel terribly anti-climatic. If Evans shows a similar improvement between this book and his next as he did between A Darkness Forged in Fire and The Light of Burning Shadows though, I eagerly anticipate what’s next.

Final Grade: 75 out of 100

"Dead Matter" by Anton Strout (Ace)

2010-02-19T23:18:00.001-08:00

Dead Matter
Anton Strout
336 pp. Ace. $7.99
Pub. Date: 2/23/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0441018444

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

I’m not a fan of the urban fantasy genre. Scratch that. I’m not a fan of the paranormal romances that play dress up in urban fantasy garb. Stories featuring a super-powered, magically well-endowed chick playing tonsil-hockey with a vampire or mummy (if she’s into older dudes) makes me want to run my tongue across a cheese grater. Twice. It’s that painful for me. And I’m not even the one playing love connection with the supernatural.

So it’s often with great trepidation and monstrous tears in my eyes that I pick up an urban fantasy novel, knowing most likely I’m wasting my life on vampire smootchies and mummy sex scenes. (Please no raising the dead jokes.) Really, why can’t these spunky hormonally-charged heroines just log on to Match.com and advertise that they’re desperately seeking werewolf? Or wanting long shuffles on the beach with a zombie? Please, keep me out of your romantic fumblings. Makes the bile hum in my throat.

So I’m horribly biased against urban fantasy (I know, color me shocked, too); it’s a problem—so I decided to work on it. Rehabilitate my attitude. Get a sponsor. Change my mindset. How so? By employing my super-duper urban fantasy twelve step program—which is really twelve steps condensed into one step—namely read more urban fantasy. Read more with an eye to finding the good books hiding among the piles of bad, the hundred dollar bill under a truckload of dirty baby diapers. Essentially finding the needle in a haystack.

Luckily, I found a needle. (Yay me!) It might be a slightly rusty needle, but it’s still a needle. Pointy in all the right places. And I didn’t get a hay bale stuck in an uncomfortable place.

Dead Matter by Anton Strout isn’t going to knock you on the floor, steal your kidney and leave you in a bathtub filled with ice, but it is a fun, fast-paced read that brings a hefty heaping of the entertainment factor. You definitely won’t be bored, because the intrigue is right up in your face. There is no supernatural sucking face, because—check this—Strout writes characters who act like real people and not hormone-crazed clichés. Well, the characters are as real as you can expect from urban fantasy. (Realistic urban fantasy characters—oxymoron much?)

Department of Extraordinary Affairs agent Simon Canderous and his girlfriend Jane are picking up some groceries for Taco Night when they’re rudely interrupted by a beastie that nightmares have nightmares of. Only some quick thinking and even quicker reactions (along with a fervent belief in the sanctity of Taco Night) keeps Simon from being a human taco (crunchy on the outside, meaty in the middle). The creature escapes, but a question remains: what kind of supernatural boogeyman was that?

Meanwhile, Simon’s partner Connor Christos is using his extensive vacation time to track down information about his missing brother. The mystery trail leads Connor into a situation that eventually requires the timely intervention of Simon, who decides to keep a closer eye on Connor since “Trouble” seems to have become his middle name. One night, Simon stumbles across a man staring into the window of Connor’s apartment, a man who looks quite a bit like Connor. Simon chases Connor’s peeping tom clone to the Gibson-Case Center only to be turned away by security. Well, that’s a big bag of curious with a side order of the mystery deepens. Further research reveals that the Gibson-Case Center isn’t quite what it seems. In fact at the heart of the building may lay the answers to all of Simon’s mysteries.

Strout develops and furthers the mystery nicely throughout the novel, teasing the reader with some clever misdirection. They are a few juicy suspects in the story, all incredibly viable until the final reveal. One of the cool choices Strout makes is to have characters that are good or bad regardless of their supernatural taxonomy. There are good vampires, and there are bad vampires, each with a unique rationale behind their moral choices. Strout writes each character as an intelligent entity able to string thoughts together like a popcorn band on a Christmas tree, which was refreshing and added to the believability of the story.

If Taco Night didn’t clue you in on the humor in Dead Matter, it should have, like a shot of seltzer water to the face. Strout has a natural knack for having his characters riff on something like pepper jack cheese and the entire conversation feeling completely natural and real. As well as being charming and funny. Damn funny.

Fans of Jim Butcher and Thomas E. Sniegoski will find a lot to like about Dead Matter. It’s tight, humorous and utterly engaging entertainment. And it doesn’t have vampire smootchies. Thanks Anton for saving my tongue from the cheese grater.

Final Grade: 70 out of 100

Collector's Corner - Joe Schreiber

2010-02-18T21:14:00.000-08:00

Years ago Joe Schreiber was signing Eat the Dark ARCs at San Diego Comic Con. I happened to get one. Now Joe is getting good pub for bringing horror to the Star Wars universe in Death Troopers. Crazy what happens in a few years.

Comic Break - "Ball Peen Hammer" by Adam Rapp and George O'Connor (First Second)

2010-02-17T22:04:00.001-08:00

Ball Peen Hammer
Writer: Adam Rapp
Artist: George O'Connor
144pg. First Second. $17.99
ISBN-13: 978-1596433007

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

There aren’t many graphic novels that really get to you, that burrow themselves deep inside your consciousness like a repressed memory, scarring you cerebrally. Not many graphic novels that are unforgettable, completely indelible like the smell of birth, still rattling your brainpan days, even weeks, after having experienced them. Some graphic novels you just can’t forget; they present images you can never un-see.

Ball Peen Hammer is one of these types of indelible and scarring reading experiences; a shocking tour de force that rips at your soul like a jagged and rusty knife. Writer Adam Rapp and artist George O’Connor have crafted an incredibly bleak vision of a dystopian society in which two lovers, separated after a night of passion, come to grips with the profound horror growing in their lives.

Most graphic novels have a narrative that is reminiscent of a summer blockbuster, a popcorn movie cluttered with bold action followed by moments of explication when the visuals fail. In comparison, Ball Peen Hammer feels more like live theater, reminiscent of a dramatic play, which is unsurprising considering Rapp is a well-renowned playwright. It’s an introspective and intimate character examination that demands response and thought from its audience; it’s impossible not to be affected by the story. Love it or hate it—you will have a reaction to the material. As I read I consistently imagined what a theater production of Ball Peen Hammer would like look, and subsequently found myself yearning to see such a production.

Rapp infuses the dystopian society of the novel with a depth and complexity even though the reader only sees it in the reflection of the characters. The reader knows little about the world; it’s the unknown lurking outside. Yet it’s difficult not to keep asking yourself how this world got so screwed up, and in what kind of world does events like this happen. By knowing so little, this bleak society becomes increasingly intriguing. This is a universe I’d love to see Rapp and O’Connor revisit in the future.

O’Connor’s artwork is perfect for the book; it feels bleak without feeling dark and heavy. It’s the light of hope buried in a suffocating coffin, lively with the hand of death on its shoulder. The expressiveness of each of the character’s faces is wonderfully done, the emotions beautifully rendered and realized.

I really enjoy comics that are happy surprises. But I love comics that are knock-your-ass-on-the-floor system shocks. Ball Peen Hammer is clearly the second kind of surprise, a beautiful and bleak piece of graphic novel gold that will chomp on your psyche like the lovechild of Freud and Pac-Man. So grab your hammer, and brace yourself. Hard. Because Ball Peen Hammer will knock you out.

Final Grade: 85 out of 100

"30 Days of Night: Light of Day" by Jeff Mariotte (Pocket Star)

2010-02-12T20:09:00.000-08:00

30 Days of Night: Light of Day
Jeff Mariotte
336 pp. Pocket Star Books. $7.99
Pub. Date: 9/29/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1439122273

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

The 30 Days of Night graphic novels have always been a guilty pleasure for me, a trip on the ultra-violent side with vampires that are portrayed as actual bloodthirsty monsters. (No sparkles here!) And being a bloodthirsty monster, these bloodsuckers only wanted to do one thing: tear a few new orifices in folks, often in the most gruesome and grisly manner possible. (Sure it’s not the Disney Channel, but not everything can be that terrifying. I mean, really, have you watched Hannah Montana?)

So having enjoyed the 30 Days of Night comics in the past, I decided to try the latest novel set in that horrific universe, 30 Days of Night: Light of Day by Jeff Mariotte. So would I be sorry? How much was this going to hurt? See, usually I’m wary of shared universe books, never really expecting much, and getting just what I expected. Most of these books deserve to be doused in gasoline and invited to a bonfire as the special guest of honor.

I also harbored doubts about whether an ultra-violent comic like this would translate well into a book; too much grisly mayhem could get old rather quickly, the reader becoming desensitized to vampire shock and awe. One or two decapitations might be a bucketful of gruesome giggles, but three hundred pages filled with heads being popped off like champagne corks at a rapper’s birthday party would be tiring.

30 Days of Night: Light of Day embraces its comic book roots like lovers entwine around each other on Valentine’s Day. It’s a non-stop, action-packed geyser of intestine soup; gruesomeness piled upon gruesomeness like a stack of Sour Cream Pringles, a hot-sticky-copper-flavored-going-to-need-three-school-janitors-to-clean-it-up mess. Now copious amounts of gory, squirting bodies aren’t a problem if there’s a story behind the mayhem. Unfortunately, there’s hardly even a tweet of story in 30 Days of Night: Light of Day.

And what there is is standard fare, an utterly tired cliché lounging on three pillows of unoriginality. Vampires seek a vaccine that will get rid of their pesky aversion to daylight, while a super-secret group of vampire hunters tries to stop them. Mariotte adds nothing new to the vampire mythos, never rewarding the reader with a new thought or a new angle. It’s like watching a rerun of a TV show you’ve seen a hundred times before, totally mindless.

There are subplots and scenes in the novel which prove to be completely unnecessary, as they don’t further the narrative. One scene late in the novel has a group of vampires descending on a mall, slaughtering shoppers. It’s a throwaway scene that adds nothing to the book, only an excuse for more gore and comic mayhem; it could have been removed and the reader would have lost nothing. Another subplot featuring losers Walker and Mitch, who are trying to get a vampire to turn them, ends with a final twist that is more laughable than shocking. It’s a surprise twist that smacks of desperation, of trying and failing to be cool.

All the characters are clipped from cardboard, and most of them get by without showing a single intelligent thought (much like my reviews.) Sure, characters in horror stories aren’t known for showing much wit, but they need to have at least one crazy aunt in the attic to make me believe they can even feed themselves. I doubt whether these characters could even leave their house without being an immense danger to themselves and society.

30 Days of Night: Light of Day is a train wreck of a novel. It adheres to its comic book roots maybe too well, but what works for a graphic novel doesn’t necessary translate into an enjoyable book.

Final Grade: 30 out of 100

Collector's Corner - Timothy Zahn

2010-02-11T20:53:00.000-08:00

Here's an autograph I got a few years back in San Diego from science fiction/fantasy/Star Wars author-extraordinaire Timothy Zahn. Enjoy.

"The God Engines" by John Scalzi (Subterranean Press)

2010-02-09T22:18:00.001-08:00

The God Engine
John Scalzi
136 pp. Subterranean Press. $20.00
Pub. Date: 12/31/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1596062993

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

One of my favorite things about John Scalzi’s books is that the man is funny. Along the lines of I-barfed-a-pink-gelatinous-quivering-lung-out kind of funny, which is an incredibly hard thing to accomplish when you are dealing with only the written word. His signature mixture of humor and space opera have always made for entertaining and vastly enjoyable reads. (Especially if killing someone with your flatulence is your idea of high comedy.)

But my absolute favorite John Scalzi scene is the first chapter of an Old Man’s War, where John Perry visits the grave of his wife, realizing this would be the last time he would visit. The writing is so poignant, and heartfelt, and touchingly human. There is so much soulfulness and life bursting from that scene. It’s utterly unforgettable.

But it is also a scene that has been singular in nature; a high that Scalzi has never reproduced in my eyes in subsequent novels. Humor has seemingly won the day in his most recent books, and those moments of profound gravitas have slowly dwindled away, winking out faster than cupcakes at a Jenny Craig meeting. Which is disappointing, since that first chapter of an Old Man’s War showed so much potential for sci-fi greatness. If only he could re-ignite that spark once again.

In The God Engines, a new limited edition novella from Subterranean Press, that’s exactly what John Scalzi has done, re-igniting that spark with an arsonist’s glee. The God Engines is unlike anything he’s done before, shockingly different, both new and completely unexpected. It’s the book Scalzi needed to write in order to mature as a writer and to take his considerable talents to the next level. It’s the book that shows he’s more than just a writer of humorous space operas; he’s also one of the best science fiction writers currently working.

A vastly rich tale set in a theocratic universe, The God Engines is a modern sci-fi classic, an intriguing examination of faith and worship and godhood. Intelligent and provocative, the narrative reminds me of a classic Twilight Zone episode, well-written, multi-leveled and rich with ideas. The God Engines is the best thing yet from John Scalzi and worthy of award consideration.

I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Final Grade: 87 out of 100

"The Conqueror's Shadow" by Ari Marmell (Spectra)

2010-02-08T20:18:00.000-08:00

The Conqueror's Shadow
Ari Marmell
448 pp. Spectra. $26.00
Pub. Date: 2/23/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0553807769

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

In Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, Gotham District Attorney Harvey Dent remarks that “…you either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Thanks for the foreshadowing, Harvey. But let’s change this statement up, going for the opposite approach. Namely, you either die a villain, or live long enough to see yourself become the hero. Now what would that look like. (Hopefully not like Darth Vader, his change of heart was the lameness.)

One day you’re out conquering the land, putting people to the sword, working on your evil genius cackle—the one that has chickens across the land dropping their nuggets and maidens fainting dead away—before finally making enough stupid tactical decisions that a hero or group of heroes can put a stop to your nefarious deeds. Which usually means getting put down for a dirt nap—cue the worms. Oh, nefarious deeds, I hardly knew you.

But maybe you got lucky like an Irishman and survived. Maybe you split as the heroes stormed the walls, tucking your bushy tail between your legs like a squirrel and sprinting for a tree. Better to pony up and run than getting pointy thing-ed to death. Live to fight another day, right?

Surprisingly, hiding in solitude suits you; you eventually settle down, start a family, rear some children, and feed copious amounts of slop to pigs. Decades pass, and then another evil conquering yahoo starts terrorizing people, one of whom happens to be you; the pigs, thankfully, are left alone. Well, that just burns your brisket and smashes your sweet potatoes. So you put your best boots on, shine up your armor, kiss the wife and kids goodbye, and set forth on a heroic adventure, intent on doling out some retribution.

Ari Marmell’s debut original novel, The Conqueror’s Shadow, uses this idea as its foundation, taking the villainous (at least in the Prologue) Corvis Rebaine, Terror of the East, and transforming him into a hero for the rest of the book. It’s an intriguing setup, and Marmell does a solid job in breathing life into the idea.

But Rebaine’s transformation is hardly from villain to hero; there is no moral epiphany that causes him to change his life. He is the same person, just viewed from a different perspective, an anti-hero, an example of one man’s freedom fighter being another man’s terrorist. The horrendous acts attributed to Rebaine in the book are perpetrated by truly evil minions who are operating outside of Rebaine’s knowledge and without his assent, providing Corvis with a buffer that allows him to never become morally unpalatable to the reader. He’s essentially the evil conqueror version of the hooker with a heart of gold cliché; he’s Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, except with scary skull armor.

This moral hedging was disappointing. I would have preferred it if Marmell had transformed a truly evil character into a reluctant anti-hero, but that would have required a darker, more pessimistic approach to the book. The Conqueror’s Shadow ultimately needs to be grittier, meaner than a junk yard dog chewing rusty syringes; this is material that would have sparkled in the hands of a dark fantasist like Joe Abercrombie or George R.R. Martin.

Instead, Marmell attempts a treatment along the lines of Scott Lynch or Brent Weeks, using sarcastic humor to mask the unpleasant and dark thoughts. Unfortunately, he never captures the magic of those two authors, though he is closer to Weeks. Fans of Brent Weeks should appreciate the pacing and minimalist approach to world building in The Conqueror’s Shadow, but will miss the grand theatrics and rollercoaster ride that made the Night Angel Trilogy so memorable.

Make no mistake; The Conqueror’s Shadow is a solid epic fantasy. It’s just disappointing since it had the potential to be a great one.

Final Grade: 72 out of 100

"A Dark Matter" by Peter Straub (Doubleday)

2010-02-05T17:20:00.000-08:00

A Dark Matter
Peter Straub
416 pp. Doubleday. $26.95
Pub. Date: 2/9/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0385516389

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

Award-winning horror author Peter Straub examines the metaphysical nature of evil in his uncompromising and genre-transcending novel, A Dark Matter.

The year is 1966 and charismatic guru Spencer Mallon has converted a small group of teenagers into devoted followers. One night, the group performs a secret ritual that goes terribly wrong, resulting in an inexplicable and mind-shattering terror and one member brutally dismembered.

Decades later, Lee Harwell decides to interview members of the group, many of them Lee’s old high school friends, about that fateful night. Each provides their own unique perspective about the day’s events including someone very close to Lee—his wife.

Intelligently written, provocative and philosophical, A Dark Matter speculates on profound issues like the nature of evil, destiny, narrative and love; each character’s unique perspective of the fateful event acting like the Socratic Method, revealing the truth piece by piece. But this is not truth that is uncovered rationally.

A Dark Matter embraces a more postmodern deconstructionist stance, doubtful of reason as the key to enlightenment on these thorny issues, doubtful of reason as an explaining force. Some ideas just cannot be explained rationally, or as Straub points out, some ideas like the duality of evil have been misunderstood by taking a rational approach to them.

The characterization in the novel is highly clinical and introspective, making the characters often feel sterile and like intellectual constructs. Personalities suffer, seemingly not fully realized, so becoming engaged with the characters is difficult.

Less a horror novel and more of a psychological literary examination, A Dark Matter is intensely speculative and intellectually rewarding. An undeniably fine read from a literary master at the top of his game.

Final Grade: 80 out of 100

Young Adult Spotlight - "Daniel X: Watch the Skies" by James Patterson and Ned Rust (Little, Brown)

2010-02-04T15:43:00.000-08:00

Daniel X: Watch the Skies
James Patterson and Ned Rust
288 pp. Little, Brown. $19.99
Pub. Date: 7/27/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0316036184

Reviewed by Lindsay Stotts

Bestselling mega-titan James Patterson, along with co-author Ned Rust, continues the story of super-powered, alien-hunting teen Daniel in the second volume of his Daniel X young adult series, Watch the Skies.

Continuing his mission of destroying the alien and its brethren that are responsible for killing his parents, Daniel sets his sights on Number 5 on his hit list this time around. Said alien is trying to turn sleepy little Holliswood into the latest must-see reality television; the problem is once he’s done with the contestants, he melts them.

If that wasn’t enough, something odd is also going on with all the pregnancies suddenly popping up in Holliswood. Once again it’s up to Daniel and his friends to save the world.

Patterson and Rust write with a simplicity and smoothness that allow your imagination to feast on the details. Daniel is relatable to teens, suffering the typical awkward teenage moments, but still utterly charming to the point you want to see him succeed; he’s both realistically portrayed and believable despite being a super-powered alien hunter.

Humor shines through in the novel with Patterson and Rust providing plenty of “laugh out loud” moments. The plot is well-executed, filled with twists and turns that will have the reader salivating for the next page.

Entertaining, engaging and humorous, Watch the Skies has me eagerly anticipating the next one in the series; an excellent read.

Final Grade: 80 out of 100

"Unperfect Souls" by Mark Del Franco (Ace)

2010-02-03T16:22:00.000-08:00

Unperfect Souls
Mark Del Franco
352 pp. Ace Books. $7.99
Pub. Date: 1/26/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0441018383

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

Unperfect Souls marks the fourth installment in Mark Del Franco’s ongoing urban fantasy series featuring druid qua detective Connor Grey.

This time around Grey is investigating a grisly decapitation in a fey-populated neighborhood of Boston called the Weird. Clues are uncovered, and Grey eventually finds himself caught between powerful rival political factions warring for supremacy.

While Unperfect Souls tries to be a Dresden Files clone, it lacks the goofy charm and humor, as well as the high-octane action, which has made Butcher’s series such a fan favorite.

Though Del Franco displays a refined and literate writing style, flat characterization and unimaginative plotting hamper the narrative. Grey is as colorless as his surname, lacking the personality necessary for an engaging protagonist.

The story is further bogged down by a ridiculous amount of dull and uninspired political maneuvering; the action scenes too sparse and non-dynamic to revive the narrative. The mystery behind the grisly murder loses steam quickly, leaving Grey seemingly aimless in his pursuits.

Del Franco teases the reader with an examination of prejudice and bigotry throughout the novel, but never fully capitalizes on what could have been an intriguing allegory.

Overall, Unperfect Souls is pedestrian urban fantasy fare.

Final Grade: 45 out of 100

Book Giveaway - "Drood" by Dan Simmons

2010-02-03T10:45:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the wonderful people at Hachette Book Group, I have a copy of Dan Simmons's Drood to giveaway in celebration of the upcoming release of Simmons's latest book Black Hills.

Drood is the name and nightmare that obsesses Charles Dickens for the last five years of his life.

On June 9, 1865, Dickens and his mistress are secretly returning to London, when their express train hurtles over a gap in the trestle. All of the first-class carriages except the one carrying Dickens are smashed to bits in the valley below. When Dickens descends into that valley to confront the dead and dying, his life will be changed forever. And at the core of that ensuing five-year nightmare is...Drood...the name that Dickens whispers to his friend Wilkie Collins. A laudanum addict and lesser novelist, Collins flouts Victorian sensibilities by living with one mistress while having a child with another, but he may be the only man on Earth with whom Dickens can share the secret of...Drood.

To Enter to Win: Send an email to pstotts@bloodofthemuse.com with the subject line "DROOD" and include your name and mailing address in the body of your email. Multiple entries will be disqualified. Winners will be selected at random. No purchase is necessary. Contest is open to residents of U.S. and Canada only. Contest ends: February 20, 2010 at 11:59pm PST.

For more Blood of the Muse giveaways: click here.

Bloggers: if you promote this contest on your blog, I will give you an additional entry. Email me at pstotts@bloodofthemuse.com with the subject line "DROOD", and include the address to your blog in the body of the email, or you can leave the address to your blog in the comment section of this post. I'll check it out and make sure you get another entry.

Good luck to everyone who enters!

"Star Wars: Death Troopers" by Joe Schreiber (Del Rey)

2010-02-01T21:02:00.000-08:00

Star Wars: Death Troopers
Joe Schreiber
256 pp. Del Rey. $24.00
Pub. Date: 10/13/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0345509628

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

A personal admission—shocking but true—I’ve never read a Star Wars themed book. Never felt the urge to either. A fact that likely explains why I’ve never gotten a Christmas card, let alone a fruitcake, from George Lucas; I’m definitely on George’s naughty list. Maybe I’m even at the top of the list, big evil Darth Vader black checkmarks next to my name. (That’s okay, George, you’re on my list. Blame Jar Jar, George.)

So what changed my mind, prompting me to take a shot on Joe Schreiber’s debut entry into the Star Wars universe, Death Troopers?

Foremost, the cover—it’s absolutely gorgeous. Nothing screams horror coolness like a Stormtrooper helmet hanging from a meat hook, blood oozing out of the eyeholes. Like some alternate universe Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Tattooine Chainsaw Massacre, maybe. The artwork looks like a movie poster for the latest slasher flick. The visceral nature of the cover art also clues you in that Death Troopers is out of the norm for Star Wars novels, that it’s a book that assumes a darker, grittier, more adult tone.

Which leads to the other reason I picked up the book: horror coupled with Star Wars has the potential—if done right—to be extremely high on the awesomeness scale. And if done wrong—well—hopefully it’s still better than The Phantom Menace.

Schreiber immediately sets an absolutely pitch perfect tone for Death Troopers, dark and brutal with a hint of nastiness hiding underneath, much like the prison barge where the novel takes place. It’s not long before you realize that this is a part of the Star Wars universe you haven’t seen before; like being shown the executive outhouse on the Death Star. And it’s intriguing for its novelty and candid nature.

Along with the tone, the pacing of Death Troopers is fantastic: taut, fast and beautifully executed. The narrative flows from creepy scene to creepier scene, skillfully building the anticipation, never giving the reader a moment to relax. Schreiber establishes himself as a master of the horror genre by being shrewd enough to let the reader’s mind supply most of the horror in the novel. The “evil” plaguing the main characters throughout the book stays hidden until the ending, lurking unseen in the shadows, open to interpretation. It’s up to the reader to puzzle together what may be out there on the prison barge, prowling.

While the pacing never slows, what seems right early in the book, feels wrong in the end. The ending is abrupt and disappointing, never completely capitalizing on Schreiber’s excellent build up. I would have liked to see the climax prolonged. There seemed to be so many more interesting avenues Schreiber could have explored in the novel, rather than going for the quick wrap-up.

Another problem with the ending is a massive change of heart in one of the characters that is completely unbelievable; a change that ultimately is a deus ex machina. Schreiber’s hand becomes too evident at this point. Furthermore, this same character also feels superfluous to the narrative, only necessary to provide a third person point of view for some chapters early in the novel. Once that role had been fulfilled, he no longer has a purpose or credible character arc. Ultimately, these problems with the ending left me disappointed.

For the most part, the Star Wars coupled with survival horror experiment succeeds with only a few cracks showing up near the end. With a better ending, Death Troopers could have been something special. Unfortunately, it’s only a missed opportunity.

Final Grade: 65 out of 100

Young Adult Spotlight: "Never Slow Dance with a Zombie" by E. Van Lowe (Tor)

2010-01-26T22:04:00.000-08:00

Never Slow Dance with a Zombie
E. Van Lowe
256 pp. Tor Teen. $8.99
Pub. Date: 8/18/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0765320407

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

Never slow dance with a zombie. Sounds like good advice. The kind of good advice you’d get from the Dear Abby of the supernatural set. Undeniably wise words to live by. Right up there with never put a campfire out with your face. (Or as a teacher once told me: never put a campfire out with your face. Again.)

Try slow dancing with a zombie—particularly a hungry one with an icky drool face and plump maggots squirming out of its nose—and you might find yourself missing a body part afterwards. A face, an arm, maybe even a big toe. Please dear lord, anything but the big toe. No dance is worth an amputation. Even the Macarena.

This is because—as everyone knows—zombies are fearsome and brutal. They eat people like Cheetos, minus the obnoxious cheesy mouth. A good day for a zombie is ripping into some guy’s chest cavity and snacking on the entrails; the last zombie in getting the colon. It might not be pretty, but it’s a raison d’être that zombies can call their own.

Unless the zombies are in E. Van Lowe’s Never Slow Dance with a Zombie, in which case they are essentially non-threatening, non-violent and about as fearsome as a pissed off butterfly. Sure, this is a novel aimed at a young adult audience, but it doesn’t mean the zombies can’t have a little bite to them. Teens know that zombies snack on faces; in fact, they expect it.

Zombies are the unstoppable killing machine of the monster world, the Great White shark of bogeymen minus the killer John Williams’ soundtrack, so toning down their violence and eliminating their bloodletting is an odd choice. Using them for a novel in which they have to be toned down is an even odder choice. Like writing a YA book about a serial killer, who never kills anyone.

Lowe takes a different approach in Never Slow Dance with a Zombie, mining the zombies for comedic gold, turning them into a harmless joke. But in making them non-threatening, he eliminates any possibility of dramatic tension in the novel. The main characters Margot and Sybil, who must co-exist with an entire high school filled with zombie classmates, never feel in peril in the book. Never feel like the zombies are a real foil for them. The zombies are just too easily overcome, outsmarted at every turn. Sure outsmarting zombies is difficult, but their overwhelming numbers should balance this equation somewhat.

There is a nice message about the perils of wanting to be popular and its consequences, but Lowe belabors it, addressing it repetitively, repeating it over and over (get the point!) making the book seem like one of those not-very-special After School Specials. Instead of making kids think and challenging them to broaden their perspective, Lowe’s constant reiteration of his message most likely will eventually turn them off, causing them to feel as if they are being lectured to.

Despite these issues, the story still has its entertaining moments, and there are a few places where its goofy charm shines through. Most of the characters are clichés in the book: the popular girl, the girl who will do anything to be popular, the selfless best friend, and the science club geeks. None of these caricatures are offensive, but neither are they something you haven’t seen before. And there is really no reason you’d need to experience them here.

So wallflowers rejoice, Never Slow Dance with a Zombie is one slow dance you can miss.

Final Grade: 57 out of 100

"Sandman Slim" by Richard Kadrey (Eos)

2010-01-20T22:54:00.001-08:00

Sandman Slim
Richard Kadrey
400 pp. Eos. $22.99
Pub. Date: 7/21/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0061714306

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

One of the greatest problems in the urban fantasy genre is that it really lacks unique voices. Ones that resonate, that cut through the garbage in the genre like a band saw through Butter Pecan ice cream. Ones that grab you by the lapels—whether you are wearing lapels or not—slap you around, while calling you every dirty name in three languages; in rare cases, spittle may be involved. Voices that ring out, making you take notice. Demanding you take notice. Like a double amputee stripper riding a John Deere tractor; it’s incredibly hard to turn away, to ignore it.

Richard Kadrey has one of those voices. In a genre where cliché and formulaic is king, and common sense is the court jester, Richard Kadrey’s Sandman Slim is a fat, heaping spoonful of regicide. The jagged knife across the powdered royal throat and the New Rock boots upon the kingly keister. While it’s good to be the king, it’s even better to be the traitorous Sandman Slim. Why? Because Kadrey’s novel is absolutely superb.

Looking for a supernatural love triangle—that’s the next shelf over. This isn’t Match.com for vampires, werewolves and mummies. It’s not a love story that’s as creepy as a drunken fraternity brother with pocketful of Flunitrazepam. Unlike most urban fantasies which are nothing more than costume jewelry for romance novels, Sandman Slim isn’t focused on characters looking for love. Unless it’s a love of mayhem and chaos. And abrupt and brutal death.

No, Hell’s most feared hitman is looking for something else on his return to Los Angeles after eleven long years stuck in the underworld cracking craniums. Revenge. A bloody, ugly, grab a sharp implement freak-out kind of revenge. Now, revenge may not be as powerful of an emotion as love, but the body count is definitely higher. And Kadrey’s protagonist James Stark doesn’t disappoint in this department, acting like a ravenous wolf at a lamb tea party.

An important aspect in urban fantasy is getting the setting right, particularly if it is a real place. You know, taking that urban part of urban fantasy seriously. Sandman Slim isn’t just set in L.A; Kadrey has made the City of Angels a real and intensely believable character in the novel. It’s like a diseased and dying animal prettified by blue skies and glossy sunshine; it’s a glitzy neon sign flashing above a homeless man eating three-day-old scraps out of a dumpster. It’s an ugliness even a shopping spree in Sephora couldn’t hide. What Charlie Huston’s Joe Pitt series did for New York, Kadrey does for Los Angeles here, exposing the city you’d see on the evening news. Showing you the city’s true face, the one behind the mask.

The pacing is incredibly tight, and the action never stops moving. The novel is relentless. Like a two ton boulder rolling down a steep hill, momentum constantly increasing, inexorable. Get out of its way, or be crushed. Kadrey doesn’t give the reader a chance to breathe, a chance to put the book down. It sweeps you up, bashes you around, amuses the hell out of you, and spits you out, shivering and awed by the overall experience. And totally exhilarated. Like whitewater rafting in a rollicking puddle of supernatural slime.

Fans of hard-edged gritty urban fantasy, particularly those who love Charlie Huston, will absolutely adore Sandman Slim. It’s a reading experience that’s not to be missed.

Final Grade: 84 out of 100

"Prospero Lost" by L. Jagi Lamplighter (Tor)

2010-01-13T21:04:00.000-08:00

Prospero Lost
L. Jagi Lamplighter
352 pp. Tor. $24.99
Pub. Date: 8/4/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0765319296

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

William Shakespeare. Poet and playwright. And the number one pick in every English Lit major’s fantasy league. (I mean, really, who can match his numbers. We’re talking first ballot Hall of Fame material here.) A writer, incomparable; the master of all things couplet, and a deft hand with the puns. Not to mention, a man of the people. Got to write a comedy centered around a case of mistaken identity? The Bard is your man. Clearly.

But Shakespeare the historian? That aspect of his writing often gets overlooked, like the tag on the end of a mattress. It’s there, you just don’t think about it. Sure, Will famously wrote tragedies about some heavy-hitting historical figures—a lesson he learned well from the ancient Greek playwrights—but no one takes these accounts as historical dogma, no college history professors pore over his plays. His work is more like fanciful re-imaginings; an exercise of literary license. With only a tinge of historical truth.

His comedies, on the other hand, are pure fiction.

Or are they?

Could there be some historical basis for them? Could, let’s say, The Tempest have a kernel of truth at its comedic heart? Could Miranda and Prospero truly exist? What would their lives have been like after leaving the island?

Enter L. Jagi Lamplighter’s Prospero Lost, which continues the story of Miranda and Prospero from Shakespeare’s The Tempest five hundred years after they left the island. (Both Caliban and Hervé Villechaize are, unfortunately, left beyond.) While it is a rather sly idea by Lamplighter, the execution is lacking, and the pacing is like a snail coated in honey, stuck in molasses.

Foremost, the book suffers from a lack of identity, like a young adult not knowing what they wish to be when they grow up, so they try to be everything. And in trying to become everything, they really become nothing. Prospero Lost tries to be a noir-themed mystery, a mythological fantasy, a historical fantasy, an English Literature in-joke, and an eschatology. But it’s not effective in accomplishing any of these.

Instead, the novel feels more like sitting in on a series of family counseling sessions, the family’s dysfunctional nature increasingly revealed like layers peeled off of an onion. Miranda is tasked early in the novel with alerting her brothers and sisters to an imminent danger, one which may be responsible for the disappearance of their father, Prospero. The biggest problem for her: she doesn’t know where most of her siblings are. Even the ones she thought she was close to. What evolves throughout the novel then is a snapshot of how a once close family has drifted apart, many of them becoming more estranged from each other in the process. Unfortunately, this isn’t very interesting. It’s just sad. Like looking at an old picture of a happy, smiling family, love beaming from their faces, and knowing they are no longer together. Like that happy family was just a dream.

Because of the book’s lack of identity, the story greatly suffers, meandering between uninteresting events, which mostly are Miranda’s various meetings with her siblings. There is a lack of action and a surplus of exposition as Miranda and her quest buddies reflect on what they know, what they think they know, and what it all means. And they do this incessantly. Lamplighter often uses this opportunity to fill in the five hundred years worth of back story. But it doesn’t make Prospero Lost feel more informative or magical, it makes it feel more unfocused. There is just too much going on, and these nostalgic remembrances don’t add anything to the book. The narrative would have been much cleaner and intriguing if some of the subplots had been abandoned and the focus narrowed.

To make matters worse, the ending of Prospero Lost is not an ending; it is a stopping point—a rest stop only—on the highway to a complete story. It is the end of Part One with Part Two being the continuation novel, Prospero in Hell. This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if Prospero Lost wasn’t less than 350 pages. There could have been a complete story here, especially with a greater emphasis on editing which could have focused the story and accelerated the pacing. Instead, the reader must now wait for the Prospero in Hell to get their questions answered. Unfortunately, the questions Prospero Lost raises aren’t intriguing enough to warrant giving the second volume a chance.

Final Grade: 56 out of 100

"Wolfbreed" by S.A. Swann (Spectra)

2010-01-03T00:13:00.000-08:00

Wolfbreed
S.A. Swann
383 pp. Spectra. $15.00
Pub. Date: 8/25/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0553807387

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

Werewolves. They are like the annoying little brother of the monster family, a me-too, tag-along, smearing their mustard encrusted corndog over your new iPod type of annoyance. They try to act cool, all slouched posture and affected sneer, conspiratorially smoking in the Boy’s Room with the bigger boys like zombies and vampires, hoping coolness can be transferred by association. But in the end werewolves are strictly second-tier in the realm of scary critters, the Lon Chaney Jr. to the more accomplished Lon Chaney Sr. They’re lamer than a three-legged horse prowling the water troughs at Pimlico, naying forlornly, one hoof away from the dog food factory.

Seriously, how many awesome werewolf-themed books have you read? How many incredible werewolf films have you seen? When was the last time a werewolf changed your life? You could probably count the number of werewolf-flavored multimedia funnery that you’ve experienced in your life on one shop teacher’s hand. With fingers left over. The pickings are that slim. Like Christian Bale in The Machinist slim. Positively gaunt; meatless bones with the marrow already sucked out.

It’s a pity, too, because werewolves have the one important aspect every good monster needs: symbolism. It might not be on par with the symbolism in George Romero’s zombie movies, but still man’s struggle with his inner beast and with his primal nature is a meaty topic. But even the man/beast dichotomy isn’t enough to save werewolves from the monster doldrums. Because no amount of symbolism can hide the fact that werewolves are essentially overgrown poochies with silver bullet allergies. Who bark at the moon.

Which means that any author taking on the werewolf mythos has a Sisyphean task ahead of them, namely rolling that furry werewolf butt up the mountain of coolness, avoiding pitfalls, careful not to get stuck below the tree line with reruns of Full House and Blossom. Most fail, miserably. Like an IT geek’s restraint in a Best Buy store.

But not S.A. Swann. Swann might not make the summit with Wolfbreed, but he’s definitely showing some Sherpa blood, elevating the werewolf mythology. Making them—dare I say it—cool.

Wolfbreed succeeds by transforming werewolves from weapons of random opportunity into weapons of mass destruction, from a four-legged killing spree into a furry, fangs glistening apocalypse. From uncontrollable beasts into focused killing machines, killers with purpose, killing on the orders of others. Swann’s wolfbreed can be controlled, aimed, unleashed on the unsuspecting and the innocent. And like other weapons, there is guiding hand resting on the trigger, a puppetmaster pulling the strings of this cadre of furry killers.

Because in Wolfbreed, werewolves are mainly seen as a tool, a very lethal tool, but still a tool. They are the means and not the end. They are the stick and not the hand. And it is this aspect—Swann’s absolute refusal to rest on clichés—that elevates the novel. That raises it above a monster-of-the-week kind of entry, giving the reader something fresh, something indelible.

Forget what you know about werewolves. Wolfbreed is not about some unfortunate soul who is bitten by a werewolf and on the next full moon decides to fur out and cause some random havoc. There is nothing random about the havoc here, it all has a purpose. It all has meaning; there is a cause, and there is an effect. And there is a rationale. And, most importantly, there are consequences. Consequences that go beyond just the unfortunate individual and his growing tick problem.

Werewolves are typically isolated, individualistic; the dramatic tension of their stories often revolves around their battle with their inner demons, with their struggle with the evil that lives within them. The beast is evil, but the man is innocent, the victim of terrible circumstance. Swann writes a different portrayal. The beast isn’t evil; it is man who is evil. The man who is controlling and vicious. The man who is brutal and heartless. The werewolf is really just the victim, the corpse discovered in the first two minutes of every Law and Order episode.

By reshaping werewolves and giving them purpose, Swann has imbued them with a greater identity. He’s made them more relatable to us, made their thoughts, hopes, fears, and loves more understandable, more poignant, and much less like a slavering, mindless beast with a one-tract killing mind. And because this approach is so engaging, so fascinating, and so new, Wolfbreed accomplished the impossible for me. It made me think werewolves were cool.

Little brother, you’ve made it.

Final Grade: 81 out of 100

2009 San Diego Comic Con: A Day in Pictures

2009-12-22T20:40:00.000-08:00

Photos courtesy of Larry Berger

It's been about five months since the 2009 San Diego Comic Convention. It's also been about five months since my son was born. These two blessed events coincided this year, which explains why I'm only now posting my photo essay on the show. File this under the better late than never category. Writing takes longer when you have to do it between dirty diapers.

The first thing that strikes you about Comic-Con: the overwhelming crowds. Massive, teeming hordes of humanity hanging out of every orifice in the San Diego Convention Center. It's like a geek enema. Not only would these people sell their own mother into slavery to get in to the convention, they actually have a line for those people. (In my defense, Mom fetched an above market price.)

But selling one's mother into slavery is quite tame when you consider the alternative. This girl looks like she went all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on her family to get a pass to the show. Either that or Jackson Pollock did her makeup.

It seems like they have a line for everything here. Even a line to take a picture of the girls who dress up in risque Disney costumes. Maybe that makes sense, because anyone who's gone to a Disney theme park will tell you that Disney is synonymous with crowds of people.

Now these girls don't look so risque from the front side, but, believe me, the back side is pure Fantasy Land. It's a small thong after all. Walt Disney must be rolling around in his freezer somewhere.

And because I know this is not nearly enough of the Disney princesses, here's another shot to make the world an even happier place.

Costumes are a big deal at Comic-Con. A really big deal. It's the perfect opportunity to let your inner nerd flag fly. And what better way to do this than to dress up as your favorite [fill-in-the-blank]. Sure, some characters are better represented than others. Superman. Batman. Princess Leia in her slave attire.

Or Princess Leia in her slave attire.

Or maybe Princess Leia kicking it old school style, two Little Debbie HoneyBuns strapped to the side of her head.

Seriously enough Princess Leia costumes, there is only so much Star Wars geekery I can take. Help me Obi-Wan, you're my only hope to find something non-Star Wars related.

Ah, the Watchmen. Wholesome, family entertainment. If your family is incredibly twisted. Now those are some timely costumes, rather forward thinking especially with the DVD release upcoming at this point. And completely unrelated to anything Star Wars.

Wait...is that a Star Wars nerd that snuck into the frame. Does George Lucas's empire know no bounds. Oh the humanity!

That's better. Good old-fashion supervillains. It's always refreshing when people do something a bit different. A bit out of the box. Of course, you may have to explain to people who you are dressed up as. But it could be worse.

You could be dressed up as a cyborg rodent. The nightmare of pest control specialists everywhere. Seems like overkill to have to enlist Robocop to take care of your rodent problems. Not surprisingly, Robocop was absent from the show, hence the infestation.

There's been a fair amount of Star Wars photos to this point, and since I don't want to alienate the Trekkies in my audience who pooh-pooh at Star Wars, I thought now would be the perfect time for a Star Trek rebuttal. So how 'bout some Klingons?

Or maybe Lieutenant Commander Data Brent Spiner looking quite enthusiastic to be there. Or maybe he's just in character. Wow, what a method actor. That's some dedication to his craft.

Forget New Generation, though. How about some old school Star Trek? How about getting your Gene Roddenberry on? How about Lieutenant Uhura Nichelle Nichols looking fabulous at 76. What? Not enough? Then I have one word for you.

Spock!

Well, actually, old Spock now. Time marches on and Leonard Nimoy's job has been offshored to a younger Spock 2.0 actor. Another casualty of a depressed economy. Things are bad when the original Star Trek actors can't get work! I know I'll keep praying that William Shatner stays employed.

One person not having a hard time getting work is Anna Paquin. First she was the Rogue in the X-Men movies and now she's playing Sookie Stackhouse in HBO's True Blood. That's a resume that'll guarantee a return invite to next year's convention. And the year after that.

But Anna wasn't the only actor out promoting. Genre mainstays were out in force during the convention, promoting their latest film and television projects. Some of them even being good.

Julie Benz who plays Rita, the wife of serial killer/family man Dexter Morgan in Showtime's Dexter, was out promoting Boondock Saints 2.

Julie wasn't the only one out promoting Boondock Saints 2. Sean Patrick Flanery also was patrolling the convention floor. Thankfully, he wasn't strapped. I hope.

Fans of NBC's Chuck must of been thrilled as just about the entire cast showed up on the floor. Yvonne Strahovski was easily one of the most popular as evidenced by the copious amounts of nerd drool that followed in her path. (Mental note to myself: next year--rain slicker).

And if that wasn't enough in the nerd drool department. The host of G4's Attack of the Show Olivia Munn took time out between her multiple costume changes to sign issues of Playboy. Talk about throwing meat to a pack of starving lions. It was like Scanners--heads literally exploded!

But as sexy as that was, nothing could top the pure sex appeal of the Mythbusters, Adam and Jaime. Unfortunately, nothing was blown up during their appearance. A fact that sent many convention goers home with tears in their eyes.

For me though, the best thing about San Diego Comic-Con is getting to meet the authors. And score some free books! Authors like Harry Connolly signing an ARC of his new novel Child of Fire.

Another great book that was freely offered was The Mirrored Heavens personalized by author David J. Williams. Really, what can be better than authors signing free books? It's like Christmas in July.

And then there is Patrick Rothfuss. The man. The myth. The legend. Oh how I wished he had spent his down time heckling Milo Ventimiglia with me.

"Hey Milo. Loved you in the Gilmore Girls!"

Until next year.