Tag: Horror

Editing Rant: For the Win (Genre Expectations)

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Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

As I mentioned in February, “Romance is Fantasy”, one of the hardest things about editing is understanding underlying tropes/messages contained in your genre. I recently had an epiphany on how American Horror genre works while reviewing a Russian/Slavic style story.

First let me explain how Russian/Slavic stories work. While American stories are all about conquering, winning, being the best, happily ever after, Slavic stories vibrate with survival, perseverance. Endings are rarely happy – Winter is always coming and one day winter will win. A Slavic vibe acknowledges the System is hard to change. Nature eventually wins. Determination and perseverance is what is to be admired, not the actual Winning. Because everything that wins will eventually lose. Trying is what matters. And sometimes we need to hear that. Not everyone can be the best. Not every monster can be defeated. Not ever win is completely clean. The power is in the Trying.

Ivanova on Babylon Five captures the Russian feeling perfectly with “No Boom today, boom tomorrow, there is always a boom tomorrow.” It’s not depression, but an acceptance that eventually everything ends.

But inevitability of losing sets the American teeth on edge, even in the Horror format. In this culture, stories must have a happy ending. A WIN. But how does that work in American Horror? Well, at the end of every horror, book or movie, even when the creator hints at the monster not being fully defeated and will be coming back, we celebrate the Win of today. We get our Winning and Happy Ending. Everyone has the Chance to be President – the Best and Most Powerful. Sparkles and Unicorns.

Now here is where things get interesting. How American Horror finally clicked in my head.

Central to this Win of today at the end of an American Horror is a mirror-flip saying the Monster has a chance to Win someday too. It can and will come back.

Everything has a chance to pull itself to the Top by its bootstraps, even the monsters.

They can be the best they can be, this temporary setback isn’t the end.

I think this difference is why in American Horror the monsters are usually individuals with faces (or masks). Counterpoint, in the Slavic literature (horror and otherwise), monsters are systems and nature – faceless hordes and forces no individual can overcome, but together the group may persevere through the sacrifice of individuals for a while.

I’m a bit bubbly realizing how American Horror works. Happy for the Monsters. They too can do it. They can win, if they just keep trying. Good for them!

Book Review: A Doll’s Life

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Amazon Cover

A Doll’s Life by Alledria Hurt

BOOK BLURB ON AMAZON

First, Alesha lost him. Then she saved him, sort of. Now can Alesha save both of them when it comes down to a game of magical cat and mouse in a world where everyone has been turned into living wooden dolls? Glance, master magician, knows something Alesha needs to finish saving her brother from death, but Glance is not going to give up the information willingly. Good thing getting things no one wants to give up is kinda what Alesha does. If she’s good, and a little lucky, she’ll leave with her own life and that of her brother. If she’s not, she may be in for a doll’s life.

 

MY REVIEW

(Full disclosure – I helped edit this book, but that was way back in 2019. After 5 years, it’s still a pretty good read.)

FIRST REVIEW 6/26/2020
When a traveler in a portal universe step through a gate – or, more likely, desperately jumps through one of the doorways between worlds – they never know what is on the other side. It could be a planet of meat hills, or a silent world under the booted heel of a tyrant, or one where the ice pellets destroy nearly everything agriculture.

Alesha tumbles through one world to another until her final stop. She hopes it isn’t her final stop, but it just might be. The local ruler, seemingly bored by the few visitors that make it to his world, offers her food and shelter and questions – or inquisition, she isn’t sure just yet.

This book clicks off all the wonderful tropes of a portal story, as well as explores the meaning of death, life, soul, and what costs should one pay to keep others alive. You can explore from the action-adventure aspect. Or a book club can have a lively discussion on the deeper meanings. Whatever level you want to read the book at – you can find enjoyment.

SECOND REVIEW/READ 10/17/2023
It’s 2023 and I’m working on knocking out #23for23 – reading 23 BIPoC authors before the end of the year. Being spooky season, I decided to return to this gem – A silent world, a ghost of a brother, faceless giants, spooky castle, and doll people. Spooky, but more adventure than horror. Exactly what I wanted and as good as I remembered.

Flash: A photo forever

Erin Penn Leave a comment

Photo 120139056 | Chorizo © Bhofack2 | Dreamstime.com

Chorizo sizzles on the stove, while I pinch some thyme and marjoram for chopping. I move the egg bowl aside for the long reach to the windowsill jungle to break off just one more bit of thyme. My phone buzzes indicating an incoming text where I had it stuck on the wall charging. “Bestie!” I shout in joy. “Siri, activate voice to text.”

Morning going well?

“I’m making chorizo breakfast tacos. Want some?”

You know I do! Take a picture.

I tell the phone to take a shot of me as I hold up the sprig I just trimmed in one hand and my chopping knife in the other. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I hear the knife clatter when I grab ahold of the counter. “Ay, Dios.” Pork and spices drench the air while I wait for my vision to clear. I blink rapidly.  A ding, then another, then a third happen as the green bits on the wooden cutting board come back into focus.

When the black clears, I see that my phone had sent my distress cry as a voice to text message. Narcisa responded immediately with:

U ok

What happened?

Come on girl respond.

Another ding comes through, I’m calling.

The phone instantly shows a red and green circle. As it starts vibrating, I tell the phone to answer. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” I say before she even gets a word out. “Just a little dizzy.” I put the sprig on the cutting board and lean over to pick up the knife.

“Again?” Narcisa asks, worry boring through the distance between us. “Emilia, you need to see a doctor about that.”

I puff a breath when I stand straight. “No, it isn’t a problem.”

“Yes, it is girl. You haven’t biked in months, not since the last fall when you hurt your wrist.” My bestie’s voice firms. “You love biking. Whatever this is, is affecting the quality of your life. That is doctor’s time.”

“I’m fine. Really I am.” I laugh as I chop the last bit. The laugh is weak.

“I don’t believe you.”

I turn to toss the fresh herbs into the meat and give it a stir.

“Don’t ignore me.”

“I’m cooking.” I say, twisting around to where the phone hangs. “Give me a sec to make sure this doesn’t burn.”

“Only one.” A pause follows that is barely a pause. “Times up.”

“If you are so worried, why don’t you come on over?” I dare ask her.

We met online a couple of years ago and just clicked. Instant best friends forever soulmates. But we have never met in person, even though the social media tags shows she lives in the same city as me. Narcisa has serious body image issues; there isn’t a picture of her anywhere online, though her video feed is full of puppets used to talk about everything from politics to books she’s read to stories from her retail job. She has this amazing alto voice, and when her mermaid puppet sings, pure goosebumps. I’ve dueted a couple times, spinning my unimpressive soprano against her magic.

“You know, I just might.”

“REALLY!” I jump up and down, excited beyond measure.

“Ouch, no screaming girlie girl.”

“Sorry.”

“Forgiven.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Yes, I think everything … I think I’m ready.”

“You are for real.” I whisper. I turn off the flame and set aside the wooden spoon. Crossing the small kitchen in a single step, I pick the phone up and repeat where she can hear me. “Are you for real?”

The silence makes its own statement.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” I fill the air with words.

“No, no, I do want to.” Narcisa responds. “I just … what if you …”

“I will love you no matter what. Fifteen, fifty or five hundred.” I assure her. “You could look like a bulldog for all I care. You are my best friend.”

“Can you take one last picture? Before I come over. I need to know. You know, that you mean it. Just your eyes,” she says, “they have your soul and I want it.”

“No problem.” I say, pulling the camera in for a closeup of my black-brown eyes. After hitting send, I hit the floor with another round of dizzy. I can’t make a sound.

“Be over in five. Don’t go dying on me before then girlie girl.”

(words 743, first published 11/5/2023)

I want your photograph Series

  1. A photo for now (7/9/2023)
  2. A photo forever (11/5/2023)

Flash: A Photo For Now

Erin Penn

Photo from Unsplash

“Hey girlie girl, shoot me a pic of where you are.”

“Sure thing bestie.” After the voice to text sends the text for my BBF who I have never met in real life, I lift my phone, click, and send. It’s a little harder than normal, what with riding a bike and all, but she asks for a pic at least once a week so I’ve had lots of practice taking photos at a moment’s notice. She never sends one back – has serious body image issues which we are working on together. I hope I find out what she looks like some day.

(words 103, first published 7/10/23)

I want your photograph Series

  1. A photo for now (7/9/2023)
  2. A photo forever (11/5/2023)

Flash: Attrition

Erin Penn

84942186 © publicdomainstockphotos | Dreamstime.com

Crunching underfoot within a forest is expected from leaves and last year’s ferns; in the forest of bones, the crunching is from some poor soul’s vertebrae from the Wars of Attrition. Not a place to walk through barefoot.

Not a place to walk through in general. The dead don’t like to be disturbed. Mourning for eternity, the skeletal trees radiated a perpetual winter chill from their bare branches, never budding with hope, despite the summer green and ripening fields Malloryson left behind. He would have never entered these damned woods if this wasn’t, ironically, his last hope. A stick, two days hardtack wrapped in a handkerchief, good boots, and, maybe, a ten-minute lead on his pursuers was all he owned at this point.

That lead became infinite the minute he passed into Dead Man’s Forest, for none but fools would follow him here. Walking around the forest takes days; not a single farmer’s path carved through the bones, chill, and unsettled dead of the blighted battlefield. Pushing deeper, Malloryson slowed his rush, confident the investigators would leave the walking dead man to the dead.

Water would be an issue soon, he thought, his mouth dry from his run. Last night’s gentle rains left red-tinted puddles reflecting oily rainbows, sitting strangely in the hollows between white roots digging into the black earth, bubbling yellow ooze clung to the wet edges like puss.

He pushed onward, looking for shelter and water, pressing against the horror each of his footfalls brought from the muffled crunching in the silent woods.

Once wizards walked here, summoning creatures from beyond to fight the rebel slaves. Humans died in droves, but for the hundreds of deaths, one or two of the monstrous beasts would fall, making the wizards vulnerable just long enough the slaves could kill a magical despot.

And then the cycle of destruction and death would start again, and end again.

Again and again.

And again.

The humans surviving the Attrition Wars didn’t win, so much as they didn’t die.

Malloryson’s hope was, like his ancestors, he was very good at not dying, so far. Unlike the burgomaster’s son, who he had accidently on-purpose killed. That soft throat needed to be squeezed to stop the poisonous words bubbling forth. It had been easy to squeeze tighter.

Malloryson didn’t regret the results. Some people are worth dying for.

The crunching of bones softened the spongy, squishing noises in his memory. A bubble, a gasp, a rattled wheeze.

The last echoed against the leafless trees. Not a memory.

The crunch of bones played counterpoint to the scrape of claws from some forgotten creature of the Wars.

Sucking sounds gurgled out from the mud as nearby bones cracked together into a new form.

A grimace splintered the blood-speckled rigor mortis grin engraved on Malloryson’s visage. Really, he had hoped to survive one meal within this cursed place. Part of his mind squealed “run away”, while another part debated if becoming a meal counted as the one meal he had hoped for.

He was done running. Too tired after hours of being chased by the investigators. If he was about to die, he wouldn’t die panting.

Instead he stepped forward to face the bone abomination, dead but refusing to admit it. Just like him.

Approaching the creature weaponless, Malloryson reached out his killer’s hand still dewed with the last breath of a hatemonger. The grotesque froze, tilting the head sideways, confused, before unhinging its jaw, exposing three rows of infinite teeth like a goose.

A mud-red tongue twisted out and looped around Malloryson’s hand, stripping the blood offering. Chill raided warmth from his arm. The tongue jerked back to the jaws of uncountable teeth, and Malloryson stumbled closer. He stared in the non-eyes of the forgotten bones and thought: how magnificent death looked.

A fitting last thought. Malloryson expected never to wake again. The return of awareness wasn’t kind.

(first published 3/5/2023, 650 words – Created from a Workshop attended at Ret-Con 2023 run by Tally Johnson. He provided thirteen possible visual prompts, all ghost/horror related. I choose prompt six which showed a traveler entering a forest of skulls.)