Dementia Games

               

The two grandparents play hide and seek

with their meds and memories,
inside their cabin,
at the heart of a distant winter.
 
Surrounded by mountains of fog,
they pet their broken cats

and play fetch with their frozen dogs.

They play makeup with feces
and formaldehyde.

The holes in their brains are for their children,
and the depressions in their bleeding gums
are for their grandchildren.
But the thieving wind stole their marbles,
and they can only count between zero and minus,
between nobody and gray.

 

Their children are unconcerned:
the two loved each other
and have passed away together,
hugging.
No one deserves to die alone!

 

 

Cemetery with Falling Teeth (vignette)

Illustration by Thomas Stetson 

I was on my way to school on that ashen morning when my teeth started coming loose. My backpack was too heavy and my head bowed down. I spit out a tooth and it landed in a puddle of mud at my feet, its white like ice, like hail. I swallowed the next ones out of fear and shame. I avoided biting and kept my mouth slightly open, but my tongue was restless and it kept pushing at them. On my way, I met two of my classmates, my usual companions, and gave them a tight-lipped smile. They weren’t talking much anyway, burdened by their packs, not fully awake. It was foggy and started to drizzle. We made our way down the familiar streets, between the usual gray apartment buildings, mud sticking to our boots, as heavy as silence.

There was construction on one of the streets. Beyond the orange barricades, the street was now a giant crater, extending to the foundation of one of the structures. Was that building sinking slowly? I couldn’t tell for sure, but it didn’t look straight. When we negotiated our detour I remembered I had to recite a poem in class. My heart sank. How was I to recite with no teeth? I’d be a laughingstock. Panicked, I lagged behind my classmates and darted inside one of the buildings. I ran up the steps to the top floor and huddled up in a corner, my tongue still working at dislodging my front teeth. Doors opened and closed below me, steps descended, whispering shadows, people going to work. 

I waited as more teeth fell. Their roots snapped and sent jolts to my brain, like earthquakes just behind your eyes. I pressed my lips tight and fought back tears.

When I felt that the class has started I went out on the muddy streets, my legs unsure where to take me. I couldn’t go back home. My mom would yell at me for skipping school and losing all my teeth. She’d say I must be contaminated and would take me to the hospital, leaving me there with strangers, needles, and scalpels. Those green walls and nauseating smells, the eternal waiting. It was worse than being on the playground when no one wanted to play with you. The hospital was a deserted playground with barbed wire.

I found myself in the cemetery. The rain picked up, hard. Through the deluge, I saw a hole waiting in front of a marble cross. The earth under it softened, and the cross started to lean over. Finally, it fell inside the muddy hole with a wet thud, just as I spit out my last tooth.  

Axl Barnes' Strangled Epitaphs

Review of Curtis Lawson's The Envious Nothing

I  remember having high expectations for Curtis Lawson's The Envious Nothing. They were surpassed
and pulverized. This is a rare treat for horror fans as Lawson expertly integrates elements of body horror, psychological horror, folk, and supernatural horror in a style firmly rooted in Lovecraftian cosmic horror.  In his earlier volume, Black Pantheons, Lawson claims that "Cosmicism is a literary philosophy that suggests we live in a vast, indifferent universe, devoid of any cosmic father figure. If you take it a bit further it is the view that the universe and any higher intelligence within it, is actually malevolent in nature." That early volume features many stories of trickster demons and other supernatural entities bent on torturing humans both physically and mentally. 

In Devil's Night and The Envious Nothing, Lawson departs gradually from that initial characterization of cosmicism and offers a more complex picture of human nature and its relationship with the supernatural. There's a certain moral ambiguity that permeates some of these stories. In "Orphan" or "The Rye-Mother" the main characters are misfits who want to find a place to belong, a place outside the confines of the ordinary world, and beings from beyond the natural order offer their help. In addition, evil becomes more diffuse, so much so it turns into nothing, but it's a dynamic and dangerous Nothing. Lawson doesn't go as far as B.R, Yeager in Negative Space, to strip these otherworldly forces of any human characteristics. Nothingness is described as envious, hungry, vengeful, although those properties are immense and grotesque in comparison to their human counterparts. Lawson here echoes ancient creation myths from the Sumero-Babylonian to the Norse traditions.  The goddess Tiamat is famously described as a primordial abyss, beyond space and time, life and death, both life-giving and vengeful and destructive. By introducing Nothingness as a malevolent force Lawson takes us to the limit of our conceptual scheme, to the realm of paradox, the point where ancient mythology merges with modern physics. If Nothing is envious isn't it Something? Isn't envy a property or a predicate that requires a subject, a substance to have it? How can something be envious while outside space and time? Don't emotions have duration, a certain feel to them? Lawson's power as a horror writer lies in being able to weave imaginative, evocative stories around these perennial cognitive cramps and conceptual dead-ends, and to vividly express that which cannot be told.

I enjoyed all stories in this volume as the author not only spins original tales but uses a variety of literary techniques and forms to deliver them. The reader is never bored and kept on his toes. Stories like "Elvis and Isolde" are so well-crafted that you probably need a strong cup of coffee before delving into them.  The stories that will remain tattooed on my brain are "The Happiest Place on Earth" (it reads like a mix of Stephen King's The Mist and The Girl who Loved Tom Gordon, steeped in deep, thick melancholy), "Secretes of the Forbidden Kata," The Rye Mother" (I have a soft spot for amoral elitist characters and the imagery is stunning) and "The Truth about Vampires," (this one's aggressive weirdness and demented depravity reminded me of Nicole Cushing's "Mr. Suicide") As a small lament, I think some of these stories deserved a larger canvass, maybe a novella or even novel treatment. For instance, "Monsters have no Place in the World to Come," a story about the Hitler Youth, could easily grow into a novel in the vein of Lord of the Flies set against the desolate background of a ruined Berlin. All in all, I warmly recommend this darkly beautiful and challenging book!

Trailer for Stillborn Gallery

Intro to Stillborn Gallery

Interview with horror writer B.R. Yeager

B.R. Yeager's Negative Space was a mind-blowing surprise of the same magnitude as Curtis Lawson's Black Heart Boy's Choir and Nicole Cushing's Mr. Suicide. All of these novels vividly capture teenage angst and courageously follow their characters into the mouth of madness, to the point where the cold edge of the blade cuts through tender skin. B.R. Yeager does away with the cannon of mainstream horror—the building of suspense to a climax, the protagonist vs. antagonist dichotomy, detailed analysis of the main character's motives and thinking—and reads more like the account of a collective bad trip, the chronicle of the gradual physical and psychological ruination of a group of teens in the small town of Kinsfield. From the outset, we learn that Kinsfield is plagued by a wave of teen suicides. Tyler, the main character, wants to contact the sinister supernatural forces behind that wave, with the help of hallucinogens and black magic. We only learn about Tyler through the lenses of those close to him and can only speculate about the motives behind his erratic and often self-destructive behavior. Reckless and cruel, Tyler is ready to sacrifice himself and those around him in his attempt at transcending his humanity. As with any act of hubris, Tyler is physically and spiritually mutilated by the malignant forces he summoned. The gloomy story and morbid imagery in Negative Space project a thick sense of mystery and doom similar to what you experience while watching a David Lynch film. The nightmarish dreamscapes are like the surrealist landscapes of Dali, and reflect hidden symbols and archetypes. Negative Space is a hypnotic book, with an almost subliminal rhythm and sound it calls us to explore the network of caves and catacombs below consciousness.

Mr. Yeager was kind enough to answer some questions for my blog. 

Axl: First, Mr. Yeager, congratulations on writing such an amazing novel! Although it is very stylized, the reader can guess it's partly rooted in personal experience. Can you please share with us some of the biographical sources of the novel, as well as giving us a sense of its literary influences? 

B.R. Yeager: While I would definitely agree that much of Negative Space is rooted in lived experience, it’s much more complicated than it being strictly biographical. The short version is that the book emerged in response to a close friend’s suicide. Beyond that, there are bits and pieces of experiences taken from my own life, or the lives of people I’ve known, or things I’ve observed, and integrated into the story. But ultimately, it’s all been smeared together in a way that makes it completely fictional. 

Major literary influences would include Kathe Koja’s The Cipher, Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes, Dennis Cooper’s My Loose Thread, Grace Krilanovich’s The Orange Eats Creeps, Philip K. Dick’s Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, The Kybalion by Three Initiates, Blake Butler’s 300,000,000, Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and John Keel’s The Mothman Prophecies. 

Axl: Negative Space seems to fit the subgenre of cosmic horror but at the same time is wildly transgressive and subversive in both content and structure. Where would you place it in the landscape of contemporary horror fiction? 

B.R. Yeager: I have no idea. Honestly, I feel a bit out of step with—or at least not particularly knowledgeable—about the contemporary horror landscape. I tend to have a very broad and personal conception of horror as a genre, which would likely include works that many wouldn’t label as horror. Ultimately, I don’t think it’s my place to square Negative Space into any particular realm within the genre, though cosmic horror and transgressive fiction seem like appropriate tags. 

Axl: In the novel, you introduce the concept of mind without life. The way I understand it, the mind emerges in the brain but it can emerge in any kind of dead matter that has a certain pattern. Is it fair to say that Tyler dies but also preserves his consciousness? Can we still say that he's alive, but more like an astral body? 

B.R. Yeager: I’m becoming more and more hesitant to answer any clarifying questions about the text, not to be an asshole, but mainly because I think any answers I give will be infinitely less interesting than the questions being posed. I will say that this interpretation is a valid one. 

Axl: As a Satanic hero or anti-hero, Tyler seems consumed by the desire for power and control. Is it fair to say that he was used and then discarded by the higher negative force engulfing the town of Kinsfield? Also, did you focus on a group of teenagers because teens are more receptive to the actions of supernatural forces? 

B.R. Yeager: I think you’re correct in that Tyler is more a conduit than an original agitator. I’m not sure I would go as far as to say he was being used by the higher forces at play, as that implies those forces possess a somewhat anthropomorphic will, which I’m not entirely sure is the case. I’d say it’s more akin to a large stone placed in the middle of a stream. The stone diverts the water, but the water is not aware of this action, nor is the water aware of this change (as far as we know). But I could be wrong.

 

(I realize this uncertainty on my part may seem strange. But with this book I wanted to write about the Unknown, and in order to truly do so, it was essential that I kept myself in the dark regarding the inhuman forces at play). 

There were two main reasons I focused on teens. The first was that I wanted to write a horror novel in the tradition of “kids on bikes uncover nefarious forces,” i.e. Stephen King’s IT, or the film The Gate, etc. The second (and more practical) reason is that there has been far less drama and “excitement” (if one could call it that) in my adult life than there was in my teens and early 20s. By making the main characters teens, I had more experiences worth drawing from, in terms of drama. 

Axl: While the novel avoids a standard good vs. evil plot, and there are lots of gray areas, Tyler seems to be at the darker end of the spectrum and Lu at the lighter end. There's also a distinction between the moths and wasps that accompany a nefarious act and the bees that are present when something "positive" takes place. Can you comment a bit about the mythological symbolism of these insects or what made you use them? 

B.R. Yeager: I’m genuinely not sure I can speak to the insects’ relation to broader mythologies. Ultimately, I think these insects are very personal manifestations of aspects of the characters who invoke them. In the book, I did want the divine or the beyond to be accessible through a number of methods and ritual, not a single dogmatic practice, as I believe this to true in reality. As a result, all the magickal or spiritual practices occurring in the book are very personal in nature, and outside of a dogmatic framework or formal institutions. 

Axl: What are your writing plans for 2021? 

B.R. Yeager: Right now I’m co-writing a low-budget horror film directed by Nick Verdi (https://twitter.com/Verdi___Nick) that I’m very excited about. I don’t think I can say much now, but I feel like it’s in a similar vein of a lot of great low-budget debuts, like Abel Ferrera’s The Driller Killer, or Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left, or Gaspar Noe’s I Stand Alone. 

I also have a short story in Hymns of Abomination, which is a forthcoming anthology tribute to Matthew Bartlett, published by Silent Motorist Media. Bartlett is from my hometown, and primarily writes about a fictionalized version of it, so it was fun to play with that world. I’m also in the early stages of my next novel, but that’s likely 3-5 years away. 

Follow B.R. Yeager on Twitter @BRYeager