Fiction Friday: Pinckney Benedict and "Damselfly"

Someday I'll tell you what it's like to be married to a genius writer guy. But for now I'll just share a little bit of his work. His name, btw, is Pinckney Benedict. He doesn't have a website, a blog, or a Twitter handle. He does have a Wikipedia page. If I say that his writing defies genre classification, it's because it does. He writes in the way good writers have written for hundreds of years: he just tells the story. Fantasy, science fiction, (rural) crime, horror, Literary Americana (I just made that up)--he lets the story be whatever it wants to be, which is what good writers do. I want him to write more, because I think his work is pretty amazing. I think that you'll think so, too.

Here's a bit of the opening to his Surreal South '11 story, "Damselfly." (You should check out his short story collection, Miracle Boy, too. Or his other books, all of which are available for your e-reading pleasure.)

“And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions. And they had breastplates, as it were breastplates of iron; and the sound of their wings was as the sound of chariots of many horses running to battle.”

Revelation 9:7-9

DAMSELFLY

by

Pinckney Benedict

At just past four in the morning, with the false dawn brightening the eastern sky, Nimrod Nickel once again found himself wide awake. He sat in the place where he’d watched the sun rise every morning for a week or more: perched on a hard wooden chair turned backward, arms crossed on the chair’s rigid back, staring out of his open kitchen window, praying for a breeze. Anything – a sigh, a whisper, a kiss.  Anything but this apparently endless doldrums. The suffocating summer’s heat and the constant droning of the seventeen-year locusts had bored their way deep into his brain, and he felt like at any minute he might go mad. At any moment, he might explode into flames. He might scream. He might hurl the kitchen chair through the screen door that opened onto the back porch. He might even do a worse thing. Give me something, he thought. His voice no more than a whisper, he said, “Anything.”

Out in his back yard, not far from the old smokehouse, some thing moved. It was slight and pale and it walked upright. Nimrod squinted. Sweat dripped from his furrowed brow into his eyes, and he wiped at it. A child? A girl? The salt of his sweat stung him, and his vision momentarily dimmed and swam. The pale figure – pale wasn’t the right word for it, exactly; it seemed luminous, it seemed almost to glow – crossed the bottom of his yard with its flitting, light-footed gait and, quick as a wink, brushed open the door of the smokehouse and slipped inside.

For a moment, Nimrod imagined that the glow he had seen – a blue luminescence as pure as light refracted from the faces of a diamond, as calm as the rays of the late-afternoon sun glancing off the surface of a cool, deep lake – outlined the heavy wooden door of the ramshackle smokehouse. How bright must that radiance be, to shine through the gap around the door that way? Inside the smokehouse, which hadn’t seen any proper use since his grandfather’s time, it must be blinding, he imagined. Nimrod closed his smarting eyes and held them closed, and when he opened them again, his vision had cleared. There was no figure, no girl, no glow.

Pharaoh pharaoh pharaoh, cried the locusts in their unnumbered millions. Pharoah pharaoh pharaoh: the locusts’ two-syllable mating chorus, endlessly repeated from every tree on Nimrod Nickel’s place, from every tree in the green little valley that lay beneath the looming shadow of Nickel’s Ridge, and from every tree and shrub and bush on the ridge. It was as though the trees themselves were crying out.

The only trees that had been spared the locust infestation were the ones covered in caterpillar cocoons. These trees stood shrouded, silent and ghostly in their white silk garments, amidst the others. Apparently the caterpillars and the locusts had an understanding between them. But the other trees: they were cloaked in the whirring, creeping, buzzing carpet of locusts. Pharaoh pharaoh pharaoh. Nimrod Nickel’s mother had told him when he was a little boy, when the unrelenting cry of the seventeen-year locusts had frightened him, that they made that sound to remind the world of the fate that had befallen the magnificent Pharaoh of Egypt when he hardened his heart against YWHW, the Lord God of Hosts. The eighth plague, followed by darkness, followed by the Destroyer.

The crushing heat had continued unbroken for better than a month now, not a breath of wind since the day in early summer when the locusts had begun boiling up out of the ground (repulsive, to watch them pull themselves free of the earth, like dead men clawing their way out of their graves; and yet he hadn’t been able to look away, fascinated for hours as his land bloomed with this weird, alien crop), and the humidity made him feel weak and woozy and sick to his stomach. He knew he needed to drink water to stay healthy, he ha dlearned that much as a boy and had relearned it during his time int he desert, but still he couldn’t bear it. On his tongue, the metallic tang of the tap water – drawn by electric pump from an ancient limestone aquifer four hundred feet below the surface – made him think of blood. He felt his gorge rise, just imagining it. He had grown up in that house, drinking that water, and it had never bothered him before this summer, but now – now it didn’t bear thinking about. Like the locusts bursting from every inch of his property. Unbearable.

Needless to say, he wasn’t eating well (You’re going to waste away, his plump, pretty wife, younger than he was by several years, said to him at every meal – Don’t you care for my cooking anymore?) and he’d begun losing weight, his jeans hanging loose from the sharp angles of his hipbones, his workshirt when he put one on in the morning draping over him like some kind of a caftan. He’d had to punch two extra holes, first one and then another just a week later, in the wide leather belt that he wore, the one with the heavy brass bull’s head buckle. He hadn’t slept through the night in weeks. He was beginning to see things, movement in the corners of his vision, cobwebs where there weren’t any cobwebs, moving shadows when there was no light to throw a shadow and nothing moving to cast it. And now – had she been naked? – a girl. A girl had drifted across his yard and gone into the smokehouse.

More at Surreal South '11.

Fiction Friday: John Hornor Jacobs's "Old Dogs, New Tricks"

Happy Day-After-Thanksgiving Fiction Friday, dear readers. Since today is also kind of a holiday, I couldn't resist giving you an extra-special treat. John Hornor Jacobs's story, Old Dogs, New Tricks, reached out and grabbed us by the collective throat here at Surreal South central, and wouldn't rest until we put it in the book. Seriously, it stalked me. Scared the hell out of my own two dogs, who made me promise to never, ever take them to Arkansas.

After you're done reading, you'll want to check out John's most excellent website, and read all about his new book, Southern Gods. 

Enjoy. --Laura

Old Dogs, New Tricks (excerpt)

by

John Hornor Jacobs

Six dogs were dead and two maimed, whining pitifully in their pens, when the truck came over the hill, headlights shining up into the pines and then dipping down, illuminating the mat of needles covering the forest floor. The truck wound its way down the path toward the pit, rumbling and coughing through the trees. It stopped with a clatter near the kennels and Issac Douglas climbed out of the cab and walked to the back.

The men watched, standing around the pit, smoking in the guttering kerosene light. Issac reached into the bed of the truck and grabbed a crate, sliding it out and onto the gate. Dressed in khaki work-shirt and pants, grease marring the elbows and knees, Issac lit a cigarette and drew on it heavily. His khaki clothes hung loosely, cinched at the waist, giving him the look of a withered navy officer.

Cigarette jutting from his mouth, he lifted the crate with a grunt. With the quick step of someone carrying a heavy load, he walked the crate over, setting it down with a thump, leaving a faint trail of smoke in the dark.

The dogs began howling and slavering, biting at the metal grills of the kennels.

“Hush now, dogs! Hush!” A man cried, kicking at the line of portable crates. The sound of growls grew frantic, more desperate. One of the men threw a bucket of water at the pens and the dogs quieted.

Turning back to the pit, the men—rough men all, field hands and laborers—leaned on the plywood and corrugated tin sides.

Kerosene lanterns hissed in the dark, throwing yellow pools of light onto the clay floor and the faces of the spectators. The men laughed and joked; money changed hands. One man, wearing a vest embroidered with the words Arkansas Warrior Kennels, adjusted a digital camera on a tripod, whistling.

Billy Cather, belly spilling over belt and sweating through his shirt in dark patches, hollered, “I got two on Luther’s terrier! Two hundred! Need a match. Someone match me!” A man raised his arm, waving, and joined Billy. They spoke for a moment then shook hands.

Cather walked over to his truck. He fished a beer out of a cooler and popped the tab. Returning, he passed Issac.

“You got another watch for me, Ike? I’m starting a collection.” He slurped his beer.

Issac sat on his crate, staring into the light of the kerosene lanterns with an abject, blank look. He pulled on his cigarette and blew a huge plume of smoke.

“Ain’t right what you did,” he said slowly, not looking at Cather. “Ain’t right.”

“What the hell you talkin’ bout, Ike? This is a goddamned dog- fight, not the Salvation Army.”

“That watch been in my family four generations. Grandaddy had it in the East Indes, and Daddy had it too in the Merchant Marines.”

“Maybe your land-locked ass shouldn’t have put it up on a bet. Ain’t nothing as sorrowful and nostalgic as a gambler down on his luck.”

“I told you I’d give you money for it last week. I’d buy it back. You know I don’t have no thousand dollars. Ain’t worth that anyway. It’s gold plate.”

Cather laughed. “You said it was priceless last week.” He leaned over, trying to look into Issac’s pen. “When did you start raising, Ike? You don’t have no kennel.”

Issac blinked slowly, not looking at the man. “I got a dog. Been training him all week. Found a little something to help in Daddy’s knick-knacks from overseas.”

Doubling over, Cather dropped his beer and held his gut in an exaggerated pose of laughter. He hawed like a mule, making his voice project across the hollow. Men encircling the pit turned to watch.

Gene Corso walked over and asked, “What’s the gag, Cather? We’re about to start another match.”

“Ike here says he’s got a dog. To fight. You better adjust your book for him, cause his dead Daddy been helping him train the thing.”

Corso squinted at Issac, cocking his head.

“That right, Mr. Douglas? You got a dog you want to fight?” He was over-polite, which felt to Issac like another form of rudeness.

Issac nodded.

“Well, we’ve got an empty slot. Miller took a pass, we need a dog for filler. So, you’re welcome to fight if you got the entry fee. Hundred dollars.”

Fishing in his pocket, Issac withdrew a wad of dirty bills and peeled off five twenties. Corso took a small black ledger from his back pocket, pulled a pencil from the spine, and flipped it open.

“Issac Douglas. Entry fee paid. Dog?”

“Dog what?”

“Sex? Color?”

Issac remained quiet, staring at the kerosene lanterns. He flicked his cigarette away, toward the trucks.

“Don’t rightly know if it’s male or female. I didn’t check.

And...after...I wasn’t gonna get close enough to check. But it’s a terrier.”

“Fine. I’ll mark it as terrier, sex...unknown. That’s a first. Color?” “Sorta gray, I guess.”

Cather laughed again. “Now that’s a breeder for you. Don’t know color. Can’t sex a dog. You sure there’s even a dog in there, Ike? Sure is being quiet. Maybe you accidentally put in a possum instead?”

Corso moved back toward the pit, bellowing, “Entrants! Get your dogs to the gates.” He looked at his ledger. “Cullum’s brindle versus Alexander’s black. Match starts in five!”

Men moved to the pens, grabbing individual crates and pulling them to either side of the pit. The crates jerked in their hands, dogs growling and shifting their weight.

When all was ready, Corso picked up a large electric torch and turned it on, shining it into the pit. The clay circle gleamed wet and red in the light. Two men, one for each dog, perched at either side, leaning forward, ready to unlatch the crates and loose the dogs.

“Ready?” Corso’s voice pitched upward and the crowd fell silent. 

“FIGHT!”

You know you want to read more...Surreal South '11

Fiction Friday: J.T. Ellison's "Gray Lady, Lady Gray"

What a blessing it is to have talented friends. When I called up J.T. Ellison to ask if she would write us a ghost story for Surreal South '11, she said "yes!" immediately. And what a story it is. It's not just a ghost story, it's a deliciously gruesome demon story. Yet, there's so much more to Gray Lady, Lady Gray than demons. I love the fairy tale, Gothic feel it has all the way through. That could have something to do with the castles she'd been visiting in Scotland for research for her Taylor Jackson thriller series. 

The following is an excerpt, opening a few pages into the story. I like the crescendo of anticipation that's common to both sets of characters. 

Thanks for reading. Enjoy.

Laura

Gray Lady, Lady Gray (excerpt)

by

J.T. Ellison

Dolon mounted the stairs slowly. He knew what was waiting for him. Lamia was once a beautiful, cunning woman, sought after by men across realms. But she had become something less than real, something full of hate and spite. He didn’t blame her. Not really. He was simply annoyed that he was tied to her, forever. All gray ladies were assigned a demon, for they were unable to leave their earthly rooms without a demon’s escort, and needed something that could travel through the air, move through walls, lift into the breeze and delve into the souls that fed her existence to make that happen.

It was just… Lamia was so old. Even when she received the essence, became the glorious woman she once was, even then he knew that she was crinkled up like an old parchment inside. It interfered with his abilities, it truly did. 

He reached the top of the stairs and slid through the wooden door into her rooms. She was asleep in her chair, facing the fire, a fur throw around her shoulders. Her gray skin sagged and a fine line of spit dripped from her hollow teeth. At least she still had them. She would be furious with him for watching her sleep. He slipped back through the door and made some noise in the hall, a warning to wake her. When he moved through the door again, she’d straightened in the chair. The fur throw was in her lap now, and she was smiling at him. Her cataracts made her eyes the color of sludge.

“What news, my sweet?”

“A wedding, Lamia. Just like you thought. Between two very young, very impressionable beings. You should have seen the female when you called to her—she turned red in the face like a baboon’s ass. And him, my love, he is strong, but also susceptible. We have a chance.”

Lamia leapt briskly from her seat and went to the window. “When is the ceremony?”

“Tomorrow night. Seven. We should have enough time.”

“Yes, we will.” Lamia turned back from the window to face him, and Dolon could see the vestiges of the beauty she had once been. Even she, old and cruel and severe, could be transformed by joy. 

“We will.”

**

The dress Elizabeth wore was simple and elegant. The base had been her grandmother’s, a wide, bell-shaped skirt of thick satin. The bodice and all the lace had been current additions, making the dress modern and sophisticated. It had a cathedral length train, and though it was much too long for their purposes in the small castle chapel, shortening it was a concession she refused to make.

Princesses had cathedral trains.

She swished about in the heavy skirt, feeling the slick fabric mold to her legs. She was rapturously happy. She checked off the list in her head.

She was in a castle.

She was about to marry the most wonderful man alive.

She was wearing part of her grandmother’s wedding gown, which brought her back to life, in a way.

She looked beautiful. Her skin was clear, she didn’t have her period, her dress fit like a glove. Even her hair had gotten in line and was piled on her head in glorious waves. 

That was plenty for one girl’s wedding day, she thought.

There was rustling in the antechamber. 

“Lizzie, it’s time. Are you ready?”

Her father. Tears pricked her eyes. Oh, my God. Her whole life she’d been waiting for this moment, and now, here it was. She took a deep breath.

“Ready, Daddy.”

She opened the door and admired her handsome father, resplendent in his white tie and tails. He twitched a bit, uncomfortably humbled by the scrutiny.

“You look gorgeous, Daddy.”

“So do you, my dear. Shall we get you married off? Remember, it’s right foot first.”

There were forty-nine stairs. She counted every one as they went down. 

The castle was decorated to the nines. She wondered what mice had descended upon the rooms to make it happen.

Before she had a chance to think anymore, the planner handed her the flowers, a simple spray of white roses and hydrangea, then opened the doors to the chapel.

It all went very quickly from there. The trumpet voluntary sprang to life, her guests rose to their feet, and she saw Edgar, standing at the other end of the room. It was all she could do not to break free and run to him, throw herself in his arms.

She floated down the aisle to gasps of appreciation. She attributed the crawling, goosebumpy sensation to nerves. She couldn’t see the two uninvited guests standing at either side of the altar, waiting for her with blood risen.

Her father stopped walking, so she stopped as well. Edgar looked ready to cry. She fought the urge as well.

Words.

Words.

Words. 

Her father squeezed her hand. And then it was time. The priest was a homely man with wads of white hair spilling from his ears. Mwaiwwage… She stifled a giggle. He spoke in a clear bell voice that snapped her back to sober.

“Elizabeth, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

“I will.” Elizabeth brushed a single tear from the corner of her eye. 

The priest turned slightly with a rustle of cloth as dark as raven’s wings.

“Edgar, will you have this woman to be your wife; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

Edgar’s voice carried to the back of the hall. 

“I will.”

“Will all of you witnessing these promises do all in your power to uphold these two persons in their marriage?”

There was a chorus of confident, “We will.” 

Elizabeth glowed.

Troped to Death

I like my horror with a certain amount of...elegance. I don't mean that I require diamonds, silk, and pretty words with my scary stories. Okay. I do like pretty words. Words that evoke images that tell a story in themselves--a kind of circular beauty. (Speaking of stories, Surreal South '11 is going to press today! Just thought I'd throw that in.) My taste runs to the Gothic, or Surreal, rather than, say, the gorier aspects of Bizarro.

Folk tales and stories of haunted houses are like candy to me. I want cobwebs and hidden skeletons. Mysterious pairs of twins, woodcutters, scary old women, and maybe even Victorian taxidermy (really, is there anything creepier?).

Over two years ago I planned out a series of dark novels based on folk tales: Familiar Tales of Uncommon Horror. The first in the series, The Devil's Oven, is based on The Gingerbread Man and became rather Frankensteinian. The second and third are from Hansel and Gretl, and Cinderella. The Hansel and Gretl story is set in the 19th century. The other two are contemporary. Sadly, dear reader, the series didn't sell. My agent gave it her best shot, but it just didn't happen. I'm still in love with the idea. There may never be a traditional publisher behind it, which disappoints me, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to plow ahead. It may be slower going, but this is what I do.

Is there an appetite for similar adaptations? Uh, yes. There are hundreds of books out there--some of them quite excellent. There's a spankin' new television series called Grimm. So, expect even more books and films that make use of the stories that most of use grew up with. These tales are rich fodder for storytellers, and have been for hundreds of years. (I have known people who refused to let their children read fairy tales because they might contain anachronistic role models. Seriously, children aren't that dumb, people. They adapt--and, believe it or not, they get their most significant learning from their parents' words and actions.)

I wanted to bring up the The Devil's Oven and Folk Tales, first. But what I find myself desperate to express is the sense of genuine horror, nay, terror, I felt when I watched the premier of American Horror on FX last night.

There are tropes that are common to specific genres of categories of literature and film. I like this definition of  trope: The use of a word, phrase, or image in a way not intended by its normal signification.

When I think of a typical slasher film, I think: Ingenue opening the basement door to investigate scary noises, the audience thinking, don't go in there! The creepy old man or woman or child who warns the investigating kids to stay away. The house or woods where murders occurred. The handsome supporting actor who is really the murderer! In the real world, an ingenue is not necessarily foolishly intrepid, handsome men are not necessarily murderers, old houses are not necessarily haunted. But almost invariably, from one horror film to another, one is expected to recognize these commonalities. They have become tropes. You can see them in spades in investigative crime novels, too. Tropes are comforting. Tropes are often identifiers of genres. Overused, they're deadly dull. Used carefully, like garlic or anchovies or spices in a sauce, they're delightful.

My work-in-progress, which is within spitting distance of being work-completed, is called Bliss House. I've blogged about it before--I'm not particularly superstitious or secretive about my work. Bliss House also opens a series, this one about a, you got it, a haunted house. The series works backwards in time, each novel fully exploring the terrible events that happen to each generation of the inhabitants of Bliss House, the last novel explaining the house's horrific origins. It's an excavation of sorts, and I'm loving exploring the characters and the stories.

When I first heard about American Horror, I was intrigued. Then, last night, I finally got to watch the premier.

I watched as Bliss House itself, an enormous brick Victorian, loomed onscreen.
I watched a family move across country after a terrible, life-changing event.
I watched a damaged female protagonist try to make sense of both her emotions and her suddenly bizarre surroundings.
I watched that same female protagonist peel back wallpaper to reveal an old, strange mural.
I watched a man become hypnotized by the strange forces in the house.
I watched someone burn sage to purify the house of evil omens and spirits.
I watched a character who had burns over 70% of his body.

It was as though someone had been looking over my shoulder as I worked on Bliss House, taking notes. I nearly had a heart attack.

For the briefest of moments, all I could think about were the editors and Amazon reviewers who would look at my manuscript and dismiss it quickly because they'd seen it all before. My career collapsed before my eyes. It was exactly the opposite of my real life experience with Isabella Moon and Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts, where there were people who thought my writing was just too different. I started thinking that I'd better brush up on my "Do you want fries with that?" patter.

I calmed, slightly, as the show went on. I couldn't even begin to describe everything that happened in those 40-something minutes, because there was just so much. It was as though someone said, "Okay, we have to have a whole bunch of scary, weird shit happening to everyone in this first episode. Everyone! And everyone in the episode has to be really weirded out, but they can't be weirded out enough to run out of the house, because there wouldn't be more episodes. Then we can maybe slow down in future episodes and start explaining stuff." I was glad for the pause button because there was an awful lot to absorb (Spoiler Alert!): A teenager who cuts, a woman with Down's Syndrome who wanders in and out of the family's house, followed by her batshit-crazy-scary mother, Jessica Lange, a few psychiatric sessions with a teenager who is obviously actually dead, a sex act with a guy in a rubber suit, a seduction by a succubus (?), Dylan McDermott naked from the back, Dylan McDermott, uh, masturbating, the terrorizing of a mean girl down in the basement, a girl fight, the brutal murder of an irritating pair of twins, Jessica Lange cursing and stealing diamonds, the protagonist catching her husband en flagrante, a man pouring gasoline all over his family and burning them in their beds, that same man tracking Dylan McDermott, and the stuff in the above list. Oh, and Dylan McDermott playing with fire and having sex with his wife. Phew! I know there was more, but I'd have to go back to the DVR.

What to do with all of this? I was very lucky to be watching the show with my husband, Pinckney, who has watched pretty much every American, Italian, Japanese, and Korean horror film ever made. He was able to tell me where each event, or trope, occurred in film before. That's from The Shining, that's from Hell House, that's music from a Hitchcock film, etc, etc. I called The Others, and The Sixth Sense.

After that, I felt better. Obviously, the screenwriters and I have been watching the same films and, perhaps, reading the same books. Only, where the screenwriters had all that stuff happening in a single episode, I would only maybe use about a third of those events in an entire novel. (And nix on the Dylan McDermott masturbation scene. That is soooo not elegant.)

What does all this mean? Well, it's a big lesson to me. As a writer, I obviously depend on the occasional trope--the same tropes that other people in the horror/suspense genre use. If I want to pout and be a baby about it, then I really should find another vocation, because this stuff happens all the time.

I'm reminded of what Pinckney told me when, early in my career, I said I was worried that I would accidentally write something the same way someone famous had. (Yes, I was pretty naive, and apparently had a very high opinion of my skills.) He said that you can give many writers the same subject and characters and they will all come up with stories that are pretty much unrecognizable from one another. Each writer has a different approach, a different history, a different vision.  Even when we model stories, they're never quite the same as the original. It's impossible.

I think I'll probably just forge ahead, writing whatever in the hell I want, the way I usually do. It's suicide to try to write to the market. I suspect it's equally foolish to write directly against it, whatever that means.

As to American Horror: I do hope they slow down. I hope that the show is actually about something more than a lot of weird shit happening to people. They've got some excellent actors, Dylan McDermott's really cute butt (if that's really him, which it's probably not), and a hell of a set. Although the basement in Bliss House is way, way cooler.

**The above painting is Heironymous Bosch's The House of Ill Repute.

Surreal South 2011: The List

I can hardly believe that we're working on the third volume of Surreal South: an Anthology of Short Fiction. The series started when a writer/editor at Press 53 asked Pinckney if he'd be interested in writing a craft book for them. When  Pinckney told her that he had an idea for a collection of surreal fiction instead, she and Press 53 said we could give it a shot.

Surreal South 2007 submissions were by invitation-only. We weren't trying to be sniffy or exclusive by not opening up submissions--we just didn't really have a good platform for explaining what we were looking for. We begged and borrowed some amazing work for SS '07. It had stories and poetry by heavy-hitters like Robert Olen Butler, William Gay, Joyce Carol Oates, Ron Rash, Andrew Hudgins, Rodney Jones, Daniel Woodrell, Tom Franklin, Lee K. Abbott, Julianna Baggott, and George Singleton. Several talented then-newbies, too, like Ben Percy, Kyle Minor, Ann Pancake, and Brad Vice. Wow--Looking back, we really were damned lucky, weren't we? I'd venture to say that no more than four or five of those people had ever been anthologized together at one time before that volume. Probably because they are such diverse writers that no one would have thought to do it.

If you look at those stories and poems together, it's a pretty good picture of the surreal. Life through a warped looking glass. The impossible and improbable taken as a matter of course. Robots, zombies, murderers, aliens. But the writing has to be exceptional. It has to take its subject seriously--even if there are laughs involved.

With Surreal South 2009, we opened submissions up to anyone. And we got a wide assortment of fiction. Some of it brilliant. Much of it puzzling, and not at all surreal. But we found some real gems, and gave a few people their very first publications. Some of the stories were downright gritty. Most pleasing of all, we had many stories that crossed genres. It was one of our goals in the very beginning to break down genre barriers, and we were getting closer.

Surreal South '11 busts down genre walls. The crime and sci-fi and horror and literary genre stories stand side-by-side as just damned good stories.

Here's the list of contributors:

A.K. Thompson

Alex Lumans

Anne Valente

Anthony Neil Smith

Brad Green

Gregory Wolos

J.T. Ellison

James O’Brien

Jedidiah Ayres

Jim Walke

John Horner Jacobs

John McManus

Josh McCall

Julia Patt

Josh Woods

Laura Benedict

Marilyn Moriarty

Mark Fleming

Michael Kardos

Nik Korpon

Pinckney Benedict

Reuben Hayslett

Robert Busby

Robert Hill Long

Ron Lands

Rose Bunch

Sheryl Monks

Sophie Littlefield

Susan Woodring

Victor Schultz

Surreal South ’11 will be available in print and as an ebook in October. Can’t wait for you to read it. You won’t be disappointed.

And if I might be so bold to suggest...if you want to get a little surreal in the meantime, both Surreal South '07 and '09 are available from Press 53, Amazon, and other fine book purveyors.

Really. I can't wait!

SURREAL SOUTH 2011: The Ghosts and Monsters Volume

There are writers out there who wouldn't edit an anthology if you paid them a huge sum of money. When we did the first volume of Surreal South in 2007, Pinckney and I had lots of enthusiasm, but little experience. Our work had appeared in several anthologies, and I remember thinking, "how hard could it be?' Well, it wasn't exactly easy, but it was a whole lot of fun. For that edition, we asked a lot of favors from well-published friends so we could come right out with a statement about our vision for the series. And those friends came through in a big way.

In 2009, we shifted our focus toward including more emerging writers alongside the better-know folks. We had many excellent stories from under-published and newly-published writers. We also had plenty of original work, which was a lot of fun.

We're looking for more of the same for this third volume. Given that we now have a bigger pool of submitters, we decided to get theme-specific. Ghost and Monsters are the flavors of the day. We're serious about that, so if you're looking to submit, please keep the theme in mind. As always, we see Surreal South as encouraging a bridge between the literary short story and commercial fiction genres.

Be sure to read all the guidelines before submitting. Can't wait to see what you come up with!


GUIDELINES AT PRESS 53

Octoberguest! Pinckney Benedict

These days, my husband the writer, creative writing prof, gun nut, and all-around genius guy Pinckney Benedict doesn't spend much time on the web (with the exception of some office hours in Second Life). So I feel privileged that he agreed to do a post for Octoberguest!

If you write or read, you should check out his books. Wrecking Yard is my favorite. And this is the one we edited together.

He writes today about ORGO, a piece he did for the Versus Anthology. I love how he pushes boundaries!

Welcome, P!


When I was a kid growing up in rural West Virginia, my favorite reading material was a comic book series called Weird War. If you’ve seen the animated film Heavy Metal, in particular the segment titled “B17,” about a World War II bomber that ends up being crewed by zombies, then you know what Weird War was all about. Awesome war machines and desolation and the supernatural. Also the occasional combat robot.

Every issue of WW was introduced by the figure of Death, dressed in some bedraggled military uniform. For a kid who liked nothing better than playing combat and thinking about ghosts and monsters, it was pretty much the perfect entertainment. My family thought I was odd for liking it, but they thought I was odd anyway, and it was my allowance I was wasting on the comic books, so I guess they figured What the heck? God bless them for their benign neglect.

Years go by. Weird War ceases to be an active part of my reading and imaginative life. I write some stories. I become a professor. I grow old and bald and fat. Still, there’s nothing I like better than playing combat (in my reading, in video games, while watching movies, or just sitting in my leather recliner and listening to Metallica and wishing I had a Browning .50 caliber tripod-mounted heavy machine gun and belts and belts of ammo) and thinking about ghosts and monsters.

Then I am asked by Josh Woods if I will consider creating a piece for his innovative new anthology, VS (“versus”). The idea of a VS piece is simplicity itself: pit some iconic character or force against another (for example, “Jesus VS Thor,” which Josh himself wrote, and which is brilliant and inspiring).

And I say yes.

What to do? The answer seems simple. Create a comic. (I cannot draw a lick, so why this seemed obvious escapes me now – but it sure did make the whole process a challenge.) Make it a comic about the central conflict in the universe, which if you are a fellow who grew up in Appalachia is obviously the war in which the hillbillies descend from their mountain fastnesses to take on the rest of the world.

Make sure the comic is full of violence and monsters and medieval weaponry and so on. Add a soupcon (maybe more than a soupcon) of nudity and sex, since those elements were wholly missing from Weird War back in the 70s; and this is my version of Weird War, and I like those things about as well as I like the classic WW elements. More comic books should incorporate them, in my opinion.

Have the whole shebang narrated by Death Incarnate, who in this iteration is a chimera who goes by the moniker (which came to me in a dream while I was working on the comic) of Mother Dust.

And voila: you have my 21st century version of Weird War.

Below, the cover and first four pages of the comic, which is thirty-four pages long. It will appear in its entirety in the VS anthology, which is set for release in the spring of 2009 by the marvelous Press 53, who are also the publishers of the anthology Surreal South, with which the lovely Laura and I are also associated.

And so: Orgo VS the Flatlanders.












[Remember--Everyone who comments is entered to win $100 Godiva Chocolatier and Harry & David giftbaskets, plus books from several Octoberguest! authors! Drawing held November 2nd.]



Tomorrow: Maggie Caldwell

Belated Monday Miscellany

Next week is my big appearance with Joyce Carol Oates at the Kentucky Women Writers Conference! Any advice? I have 25 minutes to talk, including a brief reading from CALLING MR. LONELY HEARTS. What to wear? Do I have time to lose five pounds? Have a little eye work done? Get a hefty dose of that gravitas stuff?! Actually, I'm really looking forward to it and can't wait. It's always such a pleasure to see Joyce, and Lexington is so lovely.

I'm thrilled to announce that J. Dillon Woods has accepted Love vs.Lust for his VERSUS anthology. From the website: "Versus is a collection of works based on the theme of pitting iconic characters or forces against one another (for example, “Jesus VS Thor” or “Adolph Hitler VS Grendel”)" It's an original, freaky collection--but I'm told there are some emotionally powerful pieces as well. I went for strangely epic and mythological (per Josh). Who knew?!

If you're at the Press 53 website checking out Versus, please do take a look at the guidelines for Surreal South 2009, the anthology of short fiction which Pinckney and I are editing. Our first volume was in 2007 and contained lots of heavy-hitters, including Daniel Woodrell, Robert Olen Butler, Tom Franklin and Rodney Jones. This time we're looking to publish emerging writers--but we want pieces from the edge of the dream world that will leave readers breathless with wonder, and maybe fear or even delight. We have many, many submissions already, and we strongly suggest that you take a good look at the first volume to understand what it's all about. As for the Southern part: if you've done time in the South, that counts too!

The emerging and fabulous Kyle Minor was in SS 2007 and will be in 2009 as well. Take ten minutes and check out his killer piece for Plots With Guns here. (He has a new collection out with DZanc Books soon!)

Too much to absorb in one post? Here's a photo to give you a little break. This guy was on our deck yesterday:


Finishing up--

I've joined Twitter.
And, finally, Facebook. I hope you'll friend me and join my blog group!

Last but definitely not least...Mystery writer and Sisters in Crime president Roberta Isleib will be in the Handbasket tomorrow!

Guest Blogging at Answer Girl's Place!

The delightful Answer Girl invited me over to her place today to talk about writing and one of my favorite books, Margaret Atwood's, The Robber Bride. I can't even imagine how many times I've read it through--often picking random chapters, a few pages at a time. She'll have other folks there throughout the week.

This weekend, Pinckney, Tom Franklin, Beth Ann Fennelly, and I read at Burke's Books in Memphis. We had a lovely crowd, and signed many copies of Surreal South, plus our individual books.



Tonight is my last scheduled Isabella Moon tour event. I'll be reading/signing for Sigma Tau Delta in SIU-Carbondale's Student Center. It's been exactly seven weeks since I left for my first tour gig in Alaska.

Before I began the tour, I fretted. Would folks show up at the readings? Would we sell any books? Would my little family survive without me? The answers were all Yes, Yes, and Yes! (Well, Pomegranate did have that whole bitten-by-a copperhead experience, but she survived.) I met so many lovely people and learned so much--a thousand thank-yous to everyone who made Isabella Moon's debut a success. I wouldn't have missed the last seven weeks for the world!

Tour Pics and a Secret Almost-Contest

Saturday's signing at Barnes & Noble was terrific! I was even treated to an eight stanza recitation of a poem one man had written for his three year-old daughter. Since he purchased a book, it was kind of like a little literary salon, right there in Barnes & Noble. Like a moron, I forgot to take pictures--I'm batting about 50% there. But I did remember my camera at the Surreal South reading at SIU back on the 27th. It was a great time--rather irreverent for a lit event, but that's what Surreal South is all about! From L to R: Kyle Minor, Rodney Jones, your faithful correspondent, Pinckney, and Jon Tribble.


And a few more pics from the tour that never ends:

With Anne Holbach, owner of The Easy Chair Bookstore and Cafe in Blacksburg, VA



With Ellen Rothwell from The Open Book at the Greenbrier Valley Theatre event in Lewisburg, WV





This Saturday, Pinckney and I will be reading/signing Surreal South and Isabella Moon at Burkes Books in Memphis from 2-4 p.m. Joining us will be the incomparable Tom Franklin (Smonk, Poachers) and the much-(deservedly)lauded poet Beth Ann Fennelly. Should be a fun afternoon!

(The secret contest part: The first person with whom I've never had dinner to comment on this blog gets a signed copy of Isabella Moon.)