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leeglenwright_author's Reviews (55)
Gut punch! GUT PUNCH!!!
This one has been on my TBR pile for a while. Short and to the point, I devoured it in one sitting.
Let's see, where the hell to start...
Duncan Ralston doesn't mince his words. Woom is indeed an 'extreme' horror novella, something that, in the hands of a lesser writer, could easily have devolved into something nasty and throwaway. But Duncan Ralston is clearly not a lesser writer. Instead, the extremity (and I stress again, there *is* extremity here) is tempered by genuine emotion. Over the course of 160-odd pages, the reader is invited to be party to a series of increasingly - the word doesn't do things justice - *depraved* situations, all of which, despite the clues cleverly peppered thoughout, build to a climax that the reader doesn't see coming. Overall, Woom is a story of hurt, of pain and loss, and to fully appreciate its impact, it needs to be experienced in one sitting - provided that you can stomach it.
There are some readers out there in Fiction Reader Land who seemingly don't get it, but as a writer generally, as well as an educated person more specifically, I like to believe that I can differentiate between fiction and reality, between art and artist. The world is a brutal place, and it is the role - the obligation - of a writer to sometimes explore that truth. Woom does just that, and then some. With Woom, Duncan Ralston teaches many other writers a lesson in how to strike for the gut and the head at the same time. If you have a penchant for extremity in dark fiction, you owe it to yourself to read it.
This one has been on my TBR pile for a while. Short and to the point, I devoured it in one sitting.
Let's see, where the hell to start...
Duncan Ralston doesn't mince his words. Woom is indeed an 'extreme' horror novella, something that, in the hands of a lesser writer, could easily have devolved into something nasty and throwaway. But Duncan Ralston is clearly not a lesser writer. Instead, the extremity (and I stress again, there *is* extremity here) is tempered by genuine emotion. Over the course of 160-odd pages, the reader is invited to be party to a series of increasingly - the word doesn't do things justice - *depraved* situations, all of which, despite the clues cleverly peppered thoughout, build to a climax that the reader doesn't see coming. Overall, Woom is a story of hurt, of pain and loss, and to fully appreciate its impact, it needs to be experienced in one sitting - provided that you can stomach it.
There are some readers out there in Fiction Reader Land who seemingly don't get it, but as a writer generally, as well as an educated person more specifically, I like to believe that I can differentiate between fiction and reality, between art and artist. The world is a brutal place, and it is the role - the obligation - of a writer to sometimes explore that truth. Woom does just that, and then some. With Woom, Duncan Ralston teaches many other writers a lesson in how to strike for the gut and the head at the same time. If you have a penchant for extremity in dark fiction, you owe it to yourself to read it.
Where do I start? Jesus, where *can* I start?
This one isn't for everyone, that should be obvious, its reputation precedes it. The subject matter is grim to say the least. To. Say. The. Least. But the pitch dark theme is counterbalanced by Chandler Morrison's stunning, at times almost poetic prose. Morrison is clearly a gifted author, crafting a story that, despite its bleak, nihilistic tone, flows in a way that will make you want to endure it, to keep with it to the bitter end. A story that will linger on after you've reached that end, provided that you have the stomach for it.
This one isn't for everyone, that should be obvious, its reputation precedes it. The subject matter is grim to say the least. To. Say. The. Least. But the pitch dark theme is counterbalanced by Chandler Morrison's stunning, at times almost poetic prose. Morrison is clearly a gifted author, crafting a story that, despite its bleak, nihilistic tone, flows in a way that will make you want to endure it, to keep with it to the bitter end. A story that will linger on after you've reached that end, provided that you have the stomach for it.
At first I was a little wary of attempting to write a review of 'Husk,' Rachel Autumn Deering's prose debut. I wasn't sure how I'd be able to approach it, seeing that, in the interests of full disclosure, we are friends (Transatlantic friends, but friends nonetheless).
I needn't have been wary. Nope, not in the slightest. I'll get to the point (hopefully forgoing my usual verbal diarrhoea in the process); Rachel's work as a comic writer stands her in good stead for the transition to prose. The writing in 'Husk' is lean and to the point, with no messing about or dwelling on anything that needn't be there. Instead, Rachel's twisted imaginings (I don't think she will be offended by my saying so) are conveyed with a punchy, almost sparse enconomy. For the most part eschewing more traditional terrors and steering well clear of traditional genre tropes, instead, 'Husk' focuses upon what, to me at least, is the real stuff of horror: addiction, guilt, and hopelessness, all underpinned with a crushing sense of inevitability.
A debut novella that promises of great things to come, with 'Husk,' Rachel Deering almost makes this whole writing thing look pretty damn easy, and certainly leaves me wanting more. If you're looking for a brisk, entertainingly chilling read, you'd do well to pick up a copy
I needn't have been wary. Nope, not in the slightest. I'll get to the point (hopefully forgoing my usual verbal diarrhoea in the process); Rachel's work as a comic writer stands her in good stead for the transition to prose. The writing in 'Husk' is lean and to the point, with no messing about or dwelling on anything that needn't be there. Instead, Rachel's twisted imaginings (I don't think she will be offended by my saying so) are conveyed with a punchy, almost sparse enconomy. For the most part eschewing more traditional terrors and steering well clear of traditional genre tropes, instead, 'Husk' focuses upon what, to me at least, is the real stuff of horror: addiction, guilt, and hopelessness, all underpinned with a crushing sense of inevitability.
A debut novella that promises of great things to come, with 'Husk,' Rachel Deering almost makes this whole writing thing look pretty damn easy, and certainly leaves me wanting more. If you're looking for a brisk, entertainingly chilling read, you'd do well to pick up a copy
Reading this novel wasn't a pleasure, it was an experience.
I had heard so much about Cows, the controversial debut novel from Matthew Stokoe, that I figured I had two options: avoid it like the plague, or challenge myself. Despite not being that much of an expert on so-called 'extreme horror,' I decided on the latter.
There is satire within the pages, along with - dare I say it - allegory. But that allegory is buried pretty damn deep, almost hidden away in a morass of squalor, degradation and violence. The aforementioned satire is pitch black, and literally smothered in blood, viscera, shit, and all manner of vileness. To use the word 'violent' would be a gross understatement. In my own writing, I tend to focus on squalor and degradation, this however, is a whole other level. Believe everything you might have heard (or should that be herd?). At times, my fevered imagination likened Cows to a deranged version of Animal Farm, if it was rewritten by Terry Gilliam and John Waters, whilst tripping on LSD. It is not for the faint hearted.
I had heard so much about Cows, the controversial debut novel from Matthew Stokoe, that I figured I had two options: avoid it like the plague, or challenge myself. Despite not being that much of an expert on so-called 'extreme horror,' I decided on the latter.
There is satire within the pages, along with - dare I say it - allegory. But that allegory is buried pretty damn deep, almost hidden away in a morass of squalor, degradation and violence. The aforementioned satire is pitch black, and literally smothered in blood, viscera, shit, and all manner of vileness. To use the word 'violent' would be a gross understatement. In my own writing, I tend to focus on squalor and degradation, this however, is a whole other level. Believe everything you might have heard (or should that be herd?). At times, my fevered imagination likened Cows to a deranged version of Animal Farm, if it was rewritten by Terry Gilliam and John Waters, whilst tripping on LSD. It is not for the faint hearted.
