Showing posts with label apocalypse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apocalypse. Show all posts

Thursday, January 6, 2022

This Story Hits Hard: A Review of F. Paul Wilson's Mini Masterpiece, "Soft" (a tale about a virus that's the end of everything)





Soft by F. Paul Wilson is a short story that deals in some of the most INTENSE of dread--a person's body collapsing in on itself, bones disintegrating into nothingness. What causes it? A VIRUS that has mutated into the collective nightmare of humanity. I don't know when it was the last time I read a story that smacks the viewer in the face with something so grisly and morbid yet does it so hauntingly, not exploitatively. No line of the dialogue and inner monologue of the protagonist, a virus-stricken single father rendered vulnerable but not yet helpless in a desolate Manhattan, is wasted. Each moment of the story pushes the action forward into new spaces of fear and terrible loss. The indescribable pain that a character must feel in this world where a virus turns the bones into powder, leaving a blob of skin and hair on the ground....wow! It is a story that really crawls under your flesh and lingers there. 



The story centers around a man and his teenage daughter Judy, a former dancer whose whole lower half of her body has been rendered useless and flopping flesh by the ravages of this bone-dissolving virus. He has lost the use of his legs himself and scoots around on cloth-wrapped knees, the pitiful image of that immediately burned into the reader's mind. Manhattan is a ghost town, its residents having crumbled in on themselves a long time ago, isolation being something the father-daughter pair have gotten used to, with their only friend (and helper) being a curiously unaffected man called George. The virus has burned a path throughout the world, the story beginning with a super grisly bit of a newscaster's jaw actually breaking apart live on-air. For most, some of their limbs go first, then the other bones in their body, then it's total deterioration. It doesn't matter that the virus doesn't strike a person dead right then and there. It rapidly whittles down a life, causing multiple breaks, the body literally going "soft" until there's nothing left except loose flesh on the floor. it's the worst kind of hell a person can imagine and there's absolutely no cure for it.



Right away, reading a story about something so horrific during these very hard times of of course, an altogether different, but for numerous people, painful, dangerous and even fatal virus, caused me to look at this story with a fresh perspective. Of course the author of this magnificently creepy and disturbing tale wouldn't have been able to predict that nearly forty years later, the world would be battling a virus that is *for many* debilitating and frightening, striking them randomly, causing varying levels of suffering, but the story hits on a different, visceral level now. Soft is a look at what happens when hope is sucked out of the world, like a vacuum, and all that's left is ongoing, endless anxiety for what awaits.  The future in this is not anything to look forward to but dreaded and mourned. The sounds the bones make in this tale when they're on the verge of breaking are described by the narrator as the sickening sound of rustling cellophane, all these little fragmentations that a victim of the softness can hear before their own collapse. It's one more graphic but oh so powerful detail that drives home the message of how completely doomed everybody is. 



What does "doom" mean though when there's still love, devotion and the family? This is a good question I feel Soft asks with this father who is so dedicated to shielding his daughter from the pain and at the end of this story, inevitable loss, they'll likely both suffer. The virus has taken their legs, most of their mobility and independence away, but not their determination to keep living. A fragment of promise for them that's been preserved because the bone-dissolving virus has so far only struck their lower parts of their bodies and not the rest of their bone structure, like pretty nearly everyone else who he refers to as "jello". The father feels they can continue on a life of some worth, eventually looking to find other survivors of this plague and linking up with them. At the same time however, a new problem arises where the one untouched human being they know, George, has gone missing. Without him, their lives have gotten that much harder and painful to bear. The twist to this story is a gut-punch and makes you feel that there just may be no real escape for this father and daughter after all...

The desolation of this virus is also like nothing I've ever read before in an apocalyptic tale. We often take our bodies and their functions for granted. We get up in the morning, go about our day, tend to our families and occupations but we rarely ever think about what it means to have this intricately constructed system that is US. It serves our needs so perfectly, propels forward our society in a million different ways--creates offspring, constructs buildings, creates art, writes beautiful music, and so many more aspects of civilization. Where would not only the individual but society itself be if it all that was and ever will be was melted into a pile on the floor, as insignificant as a heap of moldy, leftover food? This story brings forward something deeply chilling because us as humanity, with all of our pride, hubris, accomplishments, intelligence and heart, is shown as being easily dissolved into the depths of nothing. It stays with you. It kind of haunts you and knocks around in your brain for a little bit--the mark of a brilliant writer!





I think what I liked most about Soft is how straight-forward and intensely and tightly written it was. The end of the world is so insidious here. It's not waiting on the bombs to drop, or an asteroid to smash into the earth, just a series of moments of quiet desperation.  The thing about this story is it doesn't neatly wrap up anything, it doesn't offer any elaborate explanation. It doesn't necessarily preach a moral, it doesn't sermonize. There's no neat resolution either, the conclusion being this father and daughter waiting for their relative good luck to run out. It's as I mentioned, a wellspring of DREAD. Some stories are a snapshot of darkness, a peek into a nightmare. But the best of them stay with you, causing you to think about what you would do in that kind of situation. What could any person possibly do in the middle of the end of the world? 



If you want a short, phenomenal apocalyptic read, definitely check out Soft by F. Paul Wilson. You might find yourself a new appreciation for the biological art that is the skeletal structure! You damn sure will be grateful.

You can read the entire story for FREE right here.


Wednesday, October 28, 2020

An Epic Battle Between Good & Evil Plus Old Hollywood Darkness in Graham Masterton's masterpiece, "Mirror"





Sometimes, old Hollywood doesn't seem quite real. The grand melodramas, the over-the-top musicals, the larger than life personas of those glittering screen stars who seem to be made of smoke and legend a bit more than human flesh. At least, that's what the glamorous, teetering on surreal, world of classic cinema seems like to me at times. In Graham Masterton's 1988 horror tour-de-force "Mirror", the question is asked: what if those old screen stars didn't even quite view themselves as altogether real, and became shrouded in darkness because of it?


There are so many deep allegories for the greed, arrogance and corruption that has always run through Hollywood throughout the years that I barely know where to begin. But it all starts with an angelic little boy called "Boofuls" and the reign of terror that is somehow unleashed 50 years after his savage death. He was a bright, shining child star, a beacon for hope and optimism during the demoralizing days of the Great Depression. He was an exuberant musical star bringing cheer to the thousands of the American movie-going public; with his rosy cheeks, blond curls, and sweet face, he was dubbed the "boy Shirley Temple" but he meant even more to the public than just being a musical star. He touched a deep emotional chord with all of them, random women *literally* wanting to be his mother. In the midst of all this fame and all of this adulation, this dynamo "Boofuls" was caught up in something utterly horrific....which lead to his grandmother descending on him one evening after he returned from shooting his latest musical, and slaughtering him.


Hacked to death with absolutely no warning of madness from the grannie who up until then, had cared for him, bringing him to Hollywood in the first place where he had enchanted the audience in one hit after another, little Boofuls becomes a dark memory of this star maker land. His name is silenced, his movies are buried, and he is forgotten by generations of actors, producers, directors and writers. Until Martin Williams, a desperate, more than slightly obsessed screenwriter whose life has taken a turn for the worse, scoops up a mysterious mirror that once hung in Boofuls and his grandmother's mansion. Martin may be slogging along writing scripts for the mediocre TV shows of the day (the late 80s, an era where I was just beginning to open my eyes and set it on the small screen), but his hopes for fame and stardom of his own has never burned more brightly. And he is determined to find it in the life and death of the child who once cinematically rallied a nation.







When does dedication become dangerous? Martin finds out the depths of wrongness and evil when he buys this artifact. A man who is half in the past, the other half in the present, all he can see is the piece of history he is buying, his screenplay, his 'magnum opus', based on the short life and demise of the child propelling him on what he feels is his personal destiny towards notoriety. 


I can tell you right now--what you get in this novel is FAR from what you would be expecting. Boofuls actually comes back to life because of the mirror Martin purchases as "inspiration", but this is the furthest thing from a mere ghost story. It is a representation of all that is unholy and wicked hiding in the crevices of a world beyond our imagining. And all of it unravels because of the actions of a thin, stressed-out writer with a penchant for corny musicals.


Imagination is the biggest part of movies. It can transport you to a different place, a different time. It can shape your emotions, lift you up or drag you down. Movies are the most useful tool of media and one of the most powerful platforms for change. With the legacy of Boofuls', there was something very powerful in his small presence back in the late 1930's, but that curious charisma he had as a musical star is what Martin discovers, is directly connected to his grisly death. That power and ability for change is heightened like nothing ever seen before with any other actor in film because of the horrifying and previously unknown details of the kid's life...and it is being used to come straight at the heads of audiences in Martin's time.


Martin Williams finds the mirror hidden in the dusty corners of an elderly woman's basement, in her down at the heels, garish retro house. Like a wilted, once elegant lady, her house has seen a better time. It's become an outdated monument to the past she shared with her late husband, frozen in the 1960's. That scene with the old woman who, kinda like Martin, has one foot in the past and the present (but just in a different way), is a brilliant little introduction to the surrealism he's entering. Before he's even stepped into the bizarro world of Boofuls', he's, in a sense, left his previous reality behind. The old woman's father-in-law had purchased the murdered child's furniture at a ghastly auction that was immediately held after his death and his grandmother's subsequent suicide, and has been languishing in her and her late hubby's home for the past 50 years. Martin can only afford one piece, the mirror, which he gleefully takes home to his small second floor apartment. From there, a little piece of hell opens up.


As Martin's carting his new prize possession away, I couldn't help wondering if the old lady had known something was....not quite right, sinister, with the mirror and was fobbing it off on her unsuspecting buyer. She had lived with it for decade after decade, it was a beautiful antique yet it was tossed aside, collecting grime. The little things in Masterton's story that are left unsaid are almost as intruiging as the obvious plot elements! The nuances are fascinating, as if the reader is peeling back the skin of a rotten piece of fruit, going down to the fetid core.


Back in 1939, Hollywoodland had been buzzing with production of Boofuls' musical Sweet Chariot. One of the biggest movies of its time, as famous as he was, the kid was poised to transition to a whole new level of superstardom when he was killed by his grandmother in the middle of it. Using the little boy's angelic face to their advantage, Hollywood had cast him as a singing, dancing street urchin turned angel, ready to sweep the country into the 1940's. Sweet Chariot is the unfinished chapter of this child's life that Martin's particularly obsessed with in his whole filmography. He has collected memorabilia from the making of the doomed project, and has included the last limo ride away from the set in his screenplay about Boofuls' life (tastefully leaving out his bloody demise).


The minute Martin places Boofuls' mirror in his home, the memory of the child comes back to LIFE. The mirror is crackling with life, the boy's energy, and it will not contain him any longer than Boofuls wants it to. After a series of events which include the abduction and trapping of Martin's landlord's five year old grandson Emilio (read it and you'll see where), and the yowling appearance of a monstrous cat in Martin's apartment, Boofuls' himself, in all his undead glory, appears in front of the terrified writer one fateful night. And he is here to stay this time.



Horror, truly fantastic horror, the kind that reaches deep in the reader and stirs up the most primal of emotions, bypasses what's just a good read and enters the realm of explosive. This is what Graham Masterton's achieved with his ode to classic cinema that shatters the rosy aesthetic in the most insidious way. You are sucked into this realm of deceit when one star after another of the golden era of Hollywood is revealed to be a part of the larger plan this magnetic little boy had set in place with the help of one woman, only called "Miss Redd"


His plan doesn't involve just the making of movies. At some point, Boofuls became someone and someTHING else...something that has made a promise to the illustrious stars the endless fame of their dreams, if ONLY they would help him in a supernatural mission that will encompass the world and the fates of every man, woman and child on it.





This is why Boofuls has returned, in 1988, in front of the screenwriter who wishes now that he'd never heard of the kid, picked up the mirror and unwittingly entered this contract Boofuls has arranged. You see, the kid is BACK and he wants to make the movie he never got to finish, Sweet Chariot, and he refuses to take no for an answer and head back to deads-ville. Or I should say, and you the reader will discover, is the realm of dark reflections.


What Masterton does here I was really surprised to see works so brilliantly because he is simply cramming SO much into this story! I'm not just talking about word count or number of pages but the sheer number of themes, ideas, perspectives, spiritual, emotional, intellectual and even psychological threads that you would think might result in a jumbled mess. The appropriately named Masterton is a master however because instead is this mind-blowing (and yes, I said mind-blowing--I use this word sparingly) work of art that is not only visually arresting but encompasses small yet significant nuances that keep your brain whirring, excited and yeah, in a little bit of shock, after you've read the last word.



What the essence of this horror tale is, is the cosmic battle between the forces of good and evil, darkness and light, the utter wrong and the pure, unvarnished right. How does an average man deal with this perpetual, ancient struggle for humankind’s collective immortal soul, especially when it’s captured within a child? Boofuls is not really ‘Boofuls’, the happy-go-lucky star of whimsical musicals but a disgusting little entity who has been manipulating everyone around him to do the wrong thing and do it gleefully because they’ve been promised BIG rewards. Imagine Damien from “The Omen” if he actually pretended to be lovable. The disturbing power of Masterton’s tale comes from how someone who seems so innocent can be so evil. Who’s more innocent than a child? What I also thought was a genius touch in the book was how *media* was used as the tool to conquer people’s minds and hearts and how easily corruptible the movie-making machine, Hollywood itself, is at its core. While I love film, and actually consider myself an old movie buff, I have also observed how many disturbing stories there’ve been to the history of Hollywood and filmmaking and the inner world of the movie stars themselves...scandals of abuse, exploitation (particularly of actresses and the old child stars who encountered mental/emotional abuse on the sets), and the drug and alcohol addictions of many stars that originated with the massive pressure and manipulations they faced as the ‘money-making machines’ of the old studio system. On the outside looking in, at first, classic Hollywood at first may seem like an enchanting palace filled with wonder and magic, but when the outside layers are peeled away, a lot of sordidness, misery and trauma becomes apparent and has destroyed the lives of many people in old Hollywood. Masterton takes the grime that could’ve very well been floating around the waters and gives it this paranormal punch. What can come out of the corruption that exists within a world that serves ONLY the superficial, which is comprised of men and women who exist only to represent their own image, but who are aging and petrified of the days when their fame and power run out? When irrelevancy consumes them and these images they’ve so carefully constructed, fade into half-remembered memory? What happens when they are so empty inside and obsessed with the vanity of their image that they decide to sell their very souls for the privilege of endless adulation? Not only is “Mirror” a phenomenal horror novel, it’s what I consider a fairly ruthless commentary on the narcissism which has always been present in Hollywood -  actors and actresses who have lost themselves so thoroughly that they’ve mentally disconnected from the rest of humanity and view themselves as not just entertainers but elevated entities perpetually needing the feeding of their egos. ALL of this is directly tied into what the child star Boofuls had orchestrated back in the late 1930's before his death and not so surprisingly what he’s been able to organize in 1988 Los Angeles after his ghostly return. In "Mirror", these movie stars simply take their obsession with glory to a whole ‘nother level...and it’s mind-blowing, posing an extinction threat to the entire world.


I can’t say anymore about the book without spoiling the journey Graham Masterton takes you on and I wouldn’t want to! It kept me up for hours, it scared the hell outta me and most importantly, it caused me to think about important matters (albeit placed in a fictional construct) in a unique manner as a reader, writer and classic film fan. It made me think of very specific aspects of darkness vs. light and how it relates to this spiritual battleground called earth, the evil of the out of control ego (which goes back to the old Biblical theme of the ‘sin of pride’) and even the importance of not living in the past, as the screenwriter Martin Williams actually brings about his personal nightmare and ultimately the nightmare of thousands of people because he cannot relinquish the memory of this dead star and the screenplay he’s written that revolves around his life and demise. All of it combines into a magnificently compelling read and to be honest, richly deserving of a quality film adaptation. I came away thinking I’d read one of the best horror novels of the late 20th century in “Mirror”. I hope that you will enjoy this read as much as I did. Fair warning though--keep a lamp on when you get through it! The chills won’t stop coming with this one.





You can also read this review over at Goodreads and connect with me there!




Friday, September 18, 2020

"The Vampire's Refuge" a dark poem by Victoria Grace

 


(Original Picture sourced from Pixabay, edited by me on Ipiccy)




Stalking the darkness was a predator approaching prey, a creature hunting flesh,

wrapped in misery and cloaked in death.



It tore open men and women's bodies,

delighted in agony and consumed human breath.



History didn't stop the monster roaming the lands,

searching for new victims to sacrifice.



Civilization grew with this monster,

denying its evil and clueless to its obvious disguise.



Things got bad,

people hated and changed with time.



Innocence was the vampire's enemy

and its diseases infected blood, consciousness and mind.



Countries fell and skylines rose

from the mud, from the blood, out of the flood of pain.

Hungry mouths made and spirits sucked out of veins.




The vampire kept taking new shapes, forms and disorder.

The life kept flowing from the holes in its victims

and in and out of shadows it moved,

waiting for new eras and new slaughter.



It didn't take long for the world to end,

as it was, it struggled along on its last gasping breath.



It didn't take long for people to retreat to their last hiding place,

not quite existence but not quite death.



Sorrow built upon itself a new framework, structure, and home.

The vampire moved into those spaces too seeking out flesh and marrow, survivors' essence and soul.



A thousand years passed,

and some humans were scattered from one continent to the next.



The sun was still shining, the birds were still flying,

but life had slowed, industry toppled, and all that was left were scattered families' nests.



The vampire had achieved almost everything it sought, planned and desired.

The memory of the past and glory of man had been whittled down to a passing reference;

half-believed, inconsequential, long since transpired.



What was left were phantoms, but the hearts itself were not quite dead.

The survivors still clung to fragments of themselves,

their children were still loved and their blood was still warm and red.



The vampire could not yet retreat, could not abandon its cause.

It wanted deadness itself, blankness like it,

so it hunted down the last hiding places--from vulnerable flesh it refused to withdraw.



It slunk into tight corners, descended to its original home, the dirt.

It manifested as new rot in the food and created brand new hurt.



There were no more cities to conquer, no more armies to infest.

There were only the left over pieces of humanity's heart, their left over heartache, and this was their final test.










Saturday, December 29, 2018

"Time For An End" An Apocalyptic poem by Victoria Grace




Our daylight 

came after the 

hottest 

week 

in winter 

we'd ever seen, 

sun like flame, 

scorching the land.


Smoke of torment 

wound 

through eternity

from fires 

of the obliviously damned.  


The land is gone,

so is our civilization

and minds.


One by one,

we chose our destiny below-ground,

where we long for death

and witness incineration

of our bloodline.


Sometimes we remember stories

of cool times, oceans and mist.


The others who cannot bear it,

fill with fury, scream and throw up their fists.


Our skin hurts to the touch,

our new home is filled

with our pain from morning to what was once night.


The lucky amongst us crawl out of darkness

into the sun's bright blazing light.


But of sanity,

I told you,

the rest have long since thrown aside.


It's become distant memory what we were,

before His punishment,

before the world died.


I listen to the howls of them in this hole,

how different it is now.


Our end time was bound to happen,

it was just the when

and the how.


My last few days in my corner

has had me thinking quite a bit.


I am only one of few left,

I guess it's time for our spirits to quit.


I whisper my last thoughts from a bleeding tongue,

into the diseased air,

finally closing the hope

that all is just a very long nightmare.


If everything has been taken from me,

erased and denied,

one thing is true--

I tried.

Thursday, December 13, 2018

"Disorder" A poem of collapse

Disorder
by Victoria Grace





She said run,

run as fast as you can.


So I ran 

from him

who was draped

in the rotting flesh

of a man.


It was hanging

and drooping

to the floor,

I dared not brush against the curse

as I ran breathless

out the door.


He'd emerged from the shadows

as something

neither dead or alive.


I couldn't hear her screams anymore

and I knew that she hadn't survived.


We had been hiding

for just one day

in what we thought were empty rooms.


We'd been chased for so long,

we were lost in the dust

that had nearly become our tomb.


We had slept those few hours,

dreaming of food and the life 

that we once knew.


We woke up then

to his smell.


He was watching us with empty eyes

joined to destroyed tissue.


He had reached out a limb

that was no more a hand

but leftovers of rot.


He grabbed sister's face,

her skin started blistering--

oh God how she fought.


I hated myself for leaving

but there was nothing I could do.


I made it into the freezing night

but the fear inside me burned deep in my skin

and grew.


I smelled the diseased air,

the night sky was a deep smoky black.


I could see her body crawling through the front door.


That wasn't my sister.

I ran and never looked back.