ISBN: 9781416593652

Book 1 of The Maker’s Song

Heather Wallace is an FBI profiler working in the field(??) on a serial killer case (all alone, loose-cannon like). In New Orleans the killer leaves its latest victim on the doorstep of Club Hell (a goth/punk club located at street number 666) with a message in blood that seems directly aimed at Club Hell’s popular (in an underground/punk/sexual deviant way) lead attraction, the (mysterious, tortured, and possibly a vampire) Dante PreJean (seriously). Heather can’t help falling for the mysterious (and seemingly sickly, but oh so sexy) PreJean and decides to go against the local cops (as in disagree with them) to prove his innocence and keep him from falling prey to the brutal serial killer.

A Rush is Wings is heavily cliched, overly-dramatic and so gothic I’m surprised it wasn’t printed on black paper with red words. As a mystery/police procedural it makes my head hurt. Heather is not a field agent, but she’s operating alone, ignoring things like evidence and jurisdiction and common sense. She doesn’t hesitate to give rides to PreJean, who is the primary suspect in the murder cases she’s apparently investigating. She also hangs out at his house and drinks with him while the local cops are trying to finger him as the serial killer (and of course, eventually she sleeps with him). She has such dangerously poor control of her weapon that she doesn’t notice when the magazine is stolen from the gun (which is in her purse). Meanwhile the mysterious man they find outside a crime scene, a reporter who somehow always has pictures of the crime scenes before the cops ever get there and is actively trying to make the cops out to be fools (and who, of course is the killer, and no this isn’t a spoiler because it’s revealed all of 100 pages into this nearly 500 page book) is dismissed outright and escapes to create more havoc. These are only the biggest (and they are pretty big) mistakes in only the first third of the book.

However, A Rush of Wings comes in at an even three stars because there is something almost hypnotic about Phoenix’s writing style and despite how many times I was thrown out of the book to engage in eye rolling or assessments on WTF it was easy to keep reading (and I could almost forget about the mistakes for a little bit until another one happened). It reads like some of the better Ann Rice or Poppy Z. Brite fan fiction, that is not original, but containing a familiar charm. I really don’t recommend it, but I have no doubt that there is an audience just salivating for books like these (with a dark, sexy, rock-god vampire hero, a pretty, strong, determined heroine, gothic intrigue and serial killers).

The “Sex in the Time of VHS” issue of the bizarro magazine Polluto begins with the title story, “Sex in the Time of VHS” by Deb Hoag. The tale focuses on Lolita, a snuff film star who is indestructible, save for the ravages of aging. This tale is short, punchy and a theme setter for the issue.

“Clowns” by Kevin Brown is next, a comedy of errors about a clown, his ex-wife and a tragic birthday party, but lacking a soul or a point (a literal non sequitur only a few pages into the issue). Next is “Verrata” by John Horner Jacobs. This is a significantly better SF-angled tale starring a man who has Asperger’s and the technology that he uses to try to function. The problem comes when the technology, rather than blocking out sensory information, begins sending errata to his brain. It’s an interesting take on a near-dystopian world, and on both the invasiveness of the internet combined with the mental workings of disorders of the autism spectrum with a bonus ghost story.

J. Michael Shell’s “Fallout” is next, a most amusing tale of the apocalypse via pollen. Following comes “Dharma and Bert” by Marshall Payne, a too-short tale of a siren sex goddess, bored with everything, and a mechanical man. A good premise it ends unsatisfactory (implications intended) with its own feel of a lack of progression.

“Hundred Year Old Murders” by Garrett Cook again broaches the topic of snuff films and a lead who appears to not be able to die. For variety this one has less character and Jack the Ripper. Rhys Hughes’ “The Groin Scratcher” is explicit and crude, filled with bad puns and a self-important narrator that gets quite annoying. There is an interesting point, near the end, but one has to put up with a lot to get there (which nearly mirrors the point of the story).

“Faux Pas, Doc” by Janett L. Grady is another short tale, but fleshy enough. It covers a conversation between a self-aware (and malfunctioning) sex robot and her creator and the way time changes things. It’s one of the better tales of the issue. “Highway Girl” by Robert Lamb, another very short story, is a twist on the old horror trope of a rapist falling victim to his victim. It is gruesome, and yet whimsical at the same time.

Following is a collection of equally gruesome and strange art and “The Last Taboo” a non fiction piece by Micci Oaten (that might enlighten readers to some of the not-made up bizarro ideas out there.) Also, there’s a collection of odd poems, one of which is shorter than this sentence, which makes reviewing them quite difficult. Pointed, at times pretty, and at other times inane they’re a vivid smattering of language and pop culture and a teaspoon or two of rage.

“Damaged” by Steve Redwood takes this issue back to short stories. This one concerns a library where women can be checked out (and a world setting where unemployment benefits covers such needs). This darkly ironic take on the male side of relationships is worth skipping ahead for. “Steel Teeth and Synthetics” by Michael R. Colangelo is another good tale, about humans as commodities, in part because the poor have no value and the rich augment themselves with all kinds of valuable technology. The theme of savagery and value continues and makes for a good, if not very dark, read.

Frank Burton’s “The Day She Melted” is another very short pieces, a poem in the form of a paragraph. “Live Without a Net: Bloodletting the Robot” by RC Edrington follows with some startling good lines about both crazy people and junkies enmeshed in more of a rant than a story.

Last is RC Edrington’s poem “After Hollywood” capturing the lost feel many artists face. A soulful piece it’s a good closer to a vivid, if not too brief, edition of Polluto.