Black Static #50 (Magazine)
Edited by Andy Cox
Published by TTA Press
Georgina Bruce’s White Rabbit kicks off the fiction offerings in issue 50 of Black Static with its tale of elderly Alec Little – a man quietly tormented by the fact that he was sat outside reading when his wife, Sarah, passed away in their bed.
In the wake of the death, Alec becomes increasingly fractured – obsessed with the apparent existence of a twisted home within his home, in which a horrifying alternate version of his wife exists, flitting in and out of doorways that exist only on one plane. Bruce’s prose details this obsession and mental unravelling with the emotional weight of a fourteen-wheeler bearing down on you, Alec’s relationship with his grown daughters and steady – seemingly inescapable – inability to remember who they are, as his decline progresses, striking harshly at tragically human chords that should resonate with just about anyone.
There’s darkness, light and shades of grey all over White Rabbit, as Bruce’s creative narrative and regular breaks, gaps and broken sentences beg you to just go with the flow – to float down the river of torment to whatever may come. Yet despite the upset inherent in the story, the author brings it to a close on a poignant, teary-eyed note that speaks of love and family… even as it riffs on the weighty terror of having them ripped away. White Rabbit is heavy, honest and horrific, yet tender and compassionate – and an excellent start to the issue.
Next up, V.H. Leslie introduces us to Dudley in Man of the House. Dudley’s a grown man who spends the majority of his time tending to his incredibly detailed doll’s house and the miniature family he has created within it. This comes, of course, much to the chagrin of his elderly father, George, who sees his son as a stunted wastrel, far too obsessed with the toy house which was handed down to him by his deceased mother.
When Dudley begins to notice strange occurrences in the doll’s house, including his favoured doll, Dorothea, moving without explanation and, on occasion, being found elsewhere in his real house, friction between the two men begins to mount. The situation is made even more fraught when a new nurse, Marnie, arrives at the household to tend to George and an attraction is quickly formed between her and Dudley.
Man of the House touches only lightly on the fantastical aspects, allowing a completely psychological interpretation of events as Dudley’s desire for solace and order – which he puts so much effort into within his doll house – slowly fills his real home as well. Leslie’s characterisation is impressive and the story consistently enthralling (the author’s description of Dudley’s infatuation with the miniature detail of his house’s furniture and decoration should ring wonderfully true for ardent hobbyists of any kind), even if the basic setup of reclusive, potentially unstable grown child vs. abusive parent is a well-worn genre trope.
Ray Cluley’s up to bat next with Child of Thorns, showing that “staying together for the kid(s)” isn’t always the best idea when it comes to maintaining one’s own sense of stability and happiness. Here, forest-dwelling couple Danny and Jessie are going through the birth of their first child – one that, when born, turns out to be constructed almost entirely of thorny vines and harsh, prickly, bush-like limbs. In a story that’s almost guaranteed to have you crossing your legs from the off (especially if you’re female!), the child itself acts as metaphor for a thorny link – one that keeps Danny and Jessie entangled, even as the former continues to maintain an affair with their nearest (married) neighbour, Nessa.
Wishing little more than to be loved, the child isn’t the monster here – rather, the beast is something much less tangible: the webs of deceit, uncertainty and suffocating fear of change that our emotional human natures grow around us, and the lamentable fact that our offspring can often be the most visceral reminder of them.
Gary Budden’s Greenteeth proves the most disappointing entry in Black Static’s 50th run, with its short exploration of the frustrating daily life of couple Lisa and Tom as they attempt to make a go at it living on a houseboat in London. With work scarce and Tom sporting a predilection for spending most of their income in the pub with his mates, Lisa narrates the story with an early romanticism that swiftly boils down to regret and discontent.
It isn’t a badly written tale by any means, but comes across as more of a “woe is me” social realist rant than anything particularly dark or thematically frightening. London isn’t a city that offers much of value to those who struggle to afford it, and the relatively common knowledge of such leaves Lisa’s parting comments on the city’s malevolent dragging down and submersion of people like her sounding more like a faux-intellectual whine than any more striking or surprising observation. It’s simply hard to find any sympathy for the ill-prepared couple — cry me a river (Thames) comes to mind.
Tyler Keevil, on the other hand, has no such problem drawing sympathy from all angles in Foul is Fair, which sees stage actor Michael bring his wife, Shona, and daughter Amy along with him to London, where he’s set to perform in an adaption of Macbeth. Upon arriving at the hotel, Michael is surprised (and intimidated) to find that the classy establishment is flooded with laddish football fans, one of whom – a burly Scottish individual – takes a distinct liking to Amy, referring to her as his “little Annie.”
Michael and Shona are encountering their own martial issues, with sniping quips and short disagreements often raising their heads, but Michael’s primary worry quickly switches to what he assumes may end up becoming the abduction of his daughter. Yet even as danger does indeed approach, all isn’t necessarily as it seems – Keevil shows us that not all such behaviour is born from malignancy in a final tragic exploration of carried grief and the truly horrifying price that could be paid for even momentary lapses in the protective sphere of parenthood.
Everything in Foul is Fair is brilliantly drawn, from Michael’s very realistic desire to get some time away from his family (and tripwire avoidance of a co-worker’s flirtations) to the simple situations that reek of malice from one perspective, but clearly not from another. The welling of emotions builds perfectly in the final stretch – all panic and barely-contained rage thrown against a wall of all-encompassing sadness that speaks directly to the nuances of human life and packs quite the wallop in doing so.
Finally, Tim Casson’s Bug Skin also treads the grounds of parental regret – in this case, the denial inherent in grief when the lost child has never been recovered. As mother Ally comes to terms with the loss of her son, Owen, she becomes embroiled in the strange culture of a singer named Miya, whose weird music, symbolism and general “schtick” appears to be informing a suicidal generation.
Bug Skin is a well written piece of work, but it feels confined by its tunnelled perspective and truncated length – mainly because there’s obviously a machine grinding away behind it on a much grander scale. A note at the end does state that more stories to do with Miya are to be forthcoming, and that is a very welcome prospect. This feels like a taster, a sample slice that carries with it the inevitable combination of peaked curiosity and tummy-rumbling disappointment inherent in such a thing. Still, it dredges up enough excitement for more to make it worthwhile. Bring it on, Mr. Casson.
Alongside a gamut of book and film reviews, we have a Q&A with author Simon Bestwick and articles by Stephen Volk (wherein he discusses the natural links between set-up and execution in horror and comedy) and Lynda E. Rucker – the latter giving what might end up being my favourite line for the rest of 2016 with her apt description of the internet as “the place where nuance goes to die.” Couldn’t agree more, Lynda!
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Magazine
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