"Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians" by Brandon Sanderson (Scholastic Press)

Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians
Brandon Sanderson
320 pp. Scholastic Press. $6.99
Pub. Date: 11/1/2008
ISBN-13: 978-0439925525

You’re being brainwashed.

No, not by me. I’m not that clever and devious, nor do I possess the evil gene necessary for such a task (which disqualifies me from running for public office. Or being one of the pageant parents on Toddlers and Tiaras). My talents lie elsewhere. Like my ability to write completely meaningless asides. Like this one. It’s not much of a talent, I’ll admit, but it beats being able to name all the episodes of Star Trek in thirty seconds.

So back to my point. The one about your gray matter being laundered in a Maytag on infinite auto-cycle. See, everything you’ve been taught in your life, is a lie. A big, Pinocchio nose-growing lie. Part of a conspiracy, really, to keep us ignorant. There was this dude, a really cool cat, lived a long time ago, name of Plato. Plato wrote about people tied up in a cave who could only see shadows projected on the cave wall in front of them. It’s what they call an allegory; these cave people weren’t seeing the true nature of things. Just a shadowy representation. Same thing with the movie The Matrix. Seems the Wachowski brothers knew this Plato dude, and thus, had no problem with ripping off his ideas.

Anyway, back to this conspiracy that keeps you ignorant. Seems there’s a powerful group out there that doesn’t want you to know certain things. No, it’s not the government. Take off the tin foil hat; we don’t all need to move out to a gated compound in Idaho and start stockpiling weapons. This group is way more powerful than that; these guys make the politicians quake in their seven hundred dollar loafers and tailored power suits. So what group am I talking about?

Why, the Death-Eaters, of course.

Just kidding; I couldn’t resist pulling your Dumbledore. Really, this group is far worse than those Voldemort groupies. So who is it?

The Librarians.

Alright, you can stop laughing now; I’ll wait.

Really, giggle hysterically, as much as you like, but I promise you, no matter how hard you laugh, your buttocks won’t fall off. Besides I’m not joking about there being a Librarian conspiracy. See, these are evil Librarians I’m talking about. Now I know calling a librarian evil is redundant; anyone ever exposed to that torture device called a card catalog already knows this. But their depravity goes even further than you think; their malicious lies know no bounds.

Do you believe in physics? You shouldn’t; it’s a Librarian fantasy. C’mon, gravity made sense to you? Boy, are you gullible. (You know, the word gullible isn’t even in the dictionary. Seriously, go check.) How about magic? Do you believe in it? You should (and not just in a young girl’s heart); it’s totally real. A big Lovin’ Spoonful of real.

Now we wouldn’t know about this Librarian conspiracy here in the Hushlands if it wasn’t for an enterprising thirteen year old named Alcatraz Smedry. Alcatraz decides to chronicle his battles with the evil Librarians, while revealing the deeper truth behind the Librarian conspiracy, in the autobiographical Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians.

Autobiographical? The novel claims Brandon Sanderson wrote it—see, right there, on the cover, in small print. Well, pish posh I say to that. Do you believe everything you read? Brandon Sanderson is just Alcatraz’s pseudonym, the one he uses to convince the Librarians that Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians is a fantasy novel, and not his memoirs. Tricky guy, that Alcatraz.

So what makes Alcatraz so awesome that he can take on evil Librarians? His special Smedry talent: he can break things. Like doors, plates, and chickens. Really, he broke a chicken. But he doesn’t take on evil Librarians alone. He has help: his grandfather, Leavenworth Smedry; a young Knight of Crystallia, Bastille, and cousins, Quentin and Sing Sing Smedry.

Alcatraz wouldn’t have even known about the evil Librarians if it hadn’t been for the gift he received on his thirteenth birthday: a bag of sand. And not just any bag of sand, but a special bag of sand. Dare I say a magic bag of sand? At least that’s what Grandpa Smedry tells him. Unfortunately it’s quickly stolen by the Librarians (pesky card-cataloguers), leaving Alcatraz no choice but to attempt a dangerous Library infiltration in order to retrieve the sands.

Massive amounts of charm and humor infect every page of Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians. Alcatraz…umm…Sanderson’s wit is infectious and joyful, the more you read of the novel, the happier you get. It makes you feel young again, like eating an ice cream cone on a hot day. Sanderson captures Alcatraz’s voice wonderfully, creating a character whose rebelliousness, adventurous spirit and humor should greatly appeal to teen readers. All of the characters display a great rapport with each other, and the banter is funny, fresh, odd, and exciting.

No matter the novel, Sanderson always seems to create cool magic schemes for his worlds. The ocular lens magic—and to a lesser extent, the Smedry talents—in Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians continues his winning streak with another Blackjack. The magic is less complex than in his adult novels, but the creativity behind the different kinds of lens, as well as the various Smedry talents, Alcatraz encounters is outstanding. The Smedry talents really stand out; they’re odd, and at first blush, they seemingly suck. As an example, Grandpa Smedry’s talent is that he always arrives late for things. That doesn’t look like much of a talent, but Sanderson makes it work in unexpected ways. In ways that actually makes it a rather cool power.

The novel moves faster than a greyhound with his butt on fire, chasing after a fire extinguisher strapped on the back of a cheetah. Fast enough to keep young readers constantly engaged, while the multitude of chapter-ending cliffhangers will make putting this one down difficult. (Having your significant other or trusted family member disorient you with a few sharp whacks from a stick, before prying the book from your hand seems to be the only effective way of stopping.)

Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians is a great young adult novel that should have no problem appealing to an adult audience. You don’t have to be a kid to enjoy it, because Sanderson’s creativity, wit and humor will make even the grumpiest curmudgeon feel like he’s twelve again.

Final Grade: 8 out of 10

"The Executor" by Jesse Kellerman (Putnam)

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The Executor
Jesse Kellerman
352 pp. Putnam. $25.95
Pub. Date: 4/1/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0399156472

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The life of a philosophy graduate student. Oh be still my beating heart. Could there be anything more exciting, more titillating, more thrill-a-minute? I think not. (Unless you’re talking about philosophy professors; those guys are rockstars, manly men with big brains, open-collared shirts, Rock & Republic jeans and hairy chests. You should see their groupies. Hubba, hubba. Because brain size does matter. Don’t let women tell you differently.)

Philosophy, the noble search for wisdom. It’s the Las Vegas Strip of academia: flashy, loud, reeking of neon enlightenment, and filled with an inordinate amount of drunks without a nickel to their name. It’s dirty, filthy, and a whole Bellagio full of sexy. And cooler than the ice bar at Mandalay Bay.

By day, philosophers read thick tomes, write with ink and quill, discuss obscure metaphysical topics—most often with themselves, or the vermin sharing their hovel—avoid human contact, name their sons Augustus, and think. And not just the if I fed my cat bamboo, would it crap a wicker chair? kind of thinking; this is the Mr. Universe of thinking: thick, heavy, and packed to the gills with illegal performance enhancers. This is thinking where your skull overheats to the point you could brand cattle with it, or loosen pesky Mason jars.

And by night—well—philosophers do the same stuff, just with less light. And they do it better than you.

Now you’re thinking, I’m having you on, pulling the proverbial leg, maybe both legs, that there is nothing interesting about being a philosopher. But you’re wrong, terribly wrong. (And I say that with love (and a chippy song) in my heart.) See, I should know; I once toiled in the philosophy mines of grad school, chipping the rocks of reason. And it’s exactly this damn sexy. Words haven’t been invented yet that properly capture the excitement, the joy, and the wonder of it all. Not that I’m biased.

Okay, I’m completely biased. There’s nothing sexy about philosophy; it’s twisted ugly men, with posters of Descartes rocking a Speedo adorning their walls, thinking convoluted ugly men thoughts. It’s a discipline that appeals to a very small minority, most of whom tote a penis around. It’s not the subject matter you’d expect to find in a thriller. Especially not a good one.

But that’s exactly what Jesse Kellerman’s The Executor, a novel that follows the life of Harvard philosophy grad student Joseph Geist, is. Good. Dare I even claim it makes philosophy exciting? Certainly. But that might be my bias speaking again; it’s hard to separate from it, difficult, like looking a Hooter girl in the eye.

Times are tough for doctoral candidate Joseph Geist. He recently broke up with his girlfriend, getting booted out of his place in the process. Forced to sleep on a friend’s couch, Joseph has no job, no money, and poor prospects; a half-bust of Nietzsche and a few clothes the extent of his possessions. Even worse, he’s stalled out on his dissertation, lost in the minutiae, and struggling to complete it.

Looking for work, a newspaper ad piques his curiosity. “Conversationalists Wanted. Serious Applicants Only.” Because philosophers and conversations go together like Socrates and Plato, he calls. And discovers a kindred spirit in Alma Spielman.

Kellerman composes The Executor in an intriguing way, almost making it seem like two separate novels. The narrative starts off happily in one direction, and just as the reader sits back and begins to enjoy the ride, Kellerman slams on the brakes, prompting a surprising twist at the halfway point that flips the story like it came off an IHOP griddle. It’s jarring, but in a good way; its unpredictability, refreshing.

Now the life of a philosophy grad student isn’t the most interesting subject matter (I’ll grudgingly admit), but Kellerman overcomes this, taking Geist’s character in an unexpected direction. Philosophers often battle—and are proud of—their rational thoughts, and Geist is no different; he envisions himself a man of uncommon genius. But these internal struggles take on new meaning in light of the novel’s surprising events. What seems innocuous in one place is not so much in another. Like the difference between peeing in a desolate stretch of woods, as opposed to peeing on It’s a Small World at Disneyland. Timing and place change everything. Including what is reasonable, and what is not.

Having studied philosophy for most of my college career, I was thrilled with how correct Kellerman got the environment and attitude. It was William Tell meets apple. Kellerman wonderfully explains issues in philosophy that most people are unaware of, like the difference between the two major schools, the Analytics and Continentals. To me, The Executor was less a novel, and more a nostalgic trip, highlighting both the positive and negative aspects of academia.

So what should you take from this review. First, I’m biased towards any novel that gives a few butt-smootchies to philosophy; I’m a slut like that. Second, even considering my prejudice, The Executor is a superior work, a cut above most pedestrian thrillers. It’s intelligent, provocative, and unpredictable; a definite worthwhile read.

Final Grade: 8 out of 10

"The Great Bazaar and Other Stories" by Peter V. Brett (Subterranean Press)

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The Great Bazaar and Other Stories
Peter V. Brett
104 pp. Subterranean Press. $20.00
Pub. Date: 2/28/2010
ISBN-13: 978-1596062894

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The Painted Man (also known as The Warded Man for those who like their books American-Made) is one of the best fantasy epics of recent years. Period, exclamation point, throw whatever other punctuation you want at it, doesn’t matter; the book seriously kicked it, bringing it like Beckham (That Posh has skillz!) The novel’s protagonist, the demon-fighting Arlen Bales, easily captures the mantle of greatest Arlen ever, (trouncing Senator Arlen Specter who doesn’t fight demons, he just works with them.) Peter V. Brett’s debut was such the tasty fantasy goodness I’ve taken to stalking Barnes & Noble delivery trucks hoping a copy of the upcoming sequel, The Desert Spear, happens to fall off one. And into my greedy little mitts.

Pathetic, I know, but The Painted Man was that damn fantastic. Like half-blind, bikini-clad Scandinavian supermodel who owns a liquor store and golf course munching on a chocolate chip ice cream cone on a hot summer day kind of fantastic. But then you discover—Oh Horror—she’s rocking a purity ring and thinks MTV is high art, and suddenly, you’re left wanting more; it makes you greedy.

But like Gordon Gekko says, Greed is good, so embrace it, want more. Maybe even plant a big, sloppy smootch on its kisser. Because sometimes you get what you want—and what you need.

If The Painted Man was a Director’s Cut DVD, The Great Bazaar and Other Stories would be the second disc filled with all the Extras. More story, deleted scenes, a ward grimoire; it’s all here. Even Brett offering context and insight into the scenes. Love The Painted Man? Then you’re going to love this collection, since it features more of what made that book so great.

The majority of the collection is devoted to the short story “The Great Bazaar”, a fantastic piece that works incredibly well as a standalone introduction to The Painted Man universe. The story follows Arlen Bales, now settled down, and proprietor of the Bales Motel. Arlen lives with his mother in a nearby house overlooking the motel. One night a blond demon, escaping from her past, checks into the motel…Alright, I’m lying. Really, did you think I was going to give it away; the story’s short, go read it. Abban, a merchant in the Great Bazaar”, is the rockstar in the story. Forget Team Jacob or Team Edward, Abban will have the love-struck pre-pubescents shrilling like wind demons after they catch his deeds in “The Great Bazaar.”

If I hadn’t read Brett’s debut, this story would have forced me to; it’s such a wonderful scene. Much better than you’d imagine, and not what you’d expect from material that didn’t make the original volume. Often, one hears the phrase deleted scenes, and thinks, This is the stuff that wasn’t good enough to make it in. That’s far from the case in The Great Bazaar and Other Stories; all the material here has the same high level of quality found in the novel. There’s not as much as I would have liked, but hopefully it’s enough to get me through to The Desert Spear without getting slapped with a restraining order from Barnes & Noble.

Fans of The Painted Man will love The Great Bazaar and Other Stories. People not familiar with Brett’s work will find this a great introduction. Being a fan of the novel, I can only view the collection in that context. Which means I’m biased. Which means I’m going to score this similarly to The Painted Man. Which means that bikini-clad, liquor store-owning Scandinavian supermodel might have just welded that purity ring onto her finger. Because already I want more.

Final Grade: 9.25 out of 10

"The Prisoner" by Carlos J. Cortes (Spectra)

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The Prisoner
Carlos J. Cortes
416 pp. Spectra. $7.99
Pub. Date: 10/27/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0553591637

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(Disclaimer: I have never been incarcerated. Nor do I want to be. Watching multiple seasons of HBO’s brutal prison drama Oz has made me realize I don’t have the constitution for prison. And I’m adverse to that much male nudity; too much like traffic cones on parade. Besides I’m too damn pretty. The following portrayal then is for entertainment purposes only. Viewer discretion is advised.)

It was the best of times; four wondrous years spent in a correctional facility, four years of my life and freedom donated to the state. Four years spent rehabilitating my shattered image, in hopes of making me, once again, a fit member of society. All for ripping off a Baby Ruth at the local Piggly Wiggly. (They take candy theft seriously in my state.) Even without Morgan Freeman offering me sage advice each day, I was able to not only survive, but to thrive. Found a job in the prison library; taught myself to read, and blog. I learned to call that penal colony my home, my sanctum sanctorum; I was proudly institutionalized.

The worse day of my life was the day I got out. Three bucks and twenty three cents in my pocket. And a bus ticket. To Des Moines. Jake Blues got a better deal than this.

Sitting here now, typing, I realize how much I miss those idyllic days. The gourmet food, the witty banter with other members of the intelligentsia, the sweet offers of companionship, and the always willing hand ready to soap your back in the shower. I feel a profound sense of loss now, thinking back to those days, my eyes tearing up.

How will I survive my freedom? I don’t know; the answer is hopefully out there. I just know I miss being a prisoner. I miss being #3789126B.

Let’s get serious. No one misses being a prisoner. No one misses being confined to a 9’ by 12’ cell, a sweaty Conan the Barbarian imposter sleeping in the bunk above. No one misses sharing their potty breaks with the rest of the world. And certainly no one misses those hideous orange jumpsuits; the ones that make prisoners look like incarcerated pumpkins. And as much fun as it is to perp-walk (Go ahead, try it at home; I’ll wait), most would agree: being in jail sucks.

But what if being in jail didn’t mean brutal attacks, molestation, and lack of privacy; didn’t mean Charles Manson giving you a haircut on every third Sunday of the month. What if you didn’t wake up every morning, stare out the bars of your cell, and contemplate surviving another day. What if you were just shut down and stored away in a hibernation tank in a high-security government facility, next to Walt Disney. Wouldn’t that be better, more humane? You’d just sleep away your time.

That is, unless you weren’t supposed to be there. Officially. There’s plenty of space in hibernation tanks, enough space to lose a person, or three. Piss off the wrong person, say the wrong thing, maybe step on the government’s toes and you might find yourself in one, unofficially. Meaning no one knows you’re there; the records don’t exist. Persona meet non grata.

Carlos J. Cortes The Prisoner is an intriguing examination of the abuse of government power in the name of security. Clearly, governments desire to be safe, so they imprison terrorists and criminals, locking them away so they cannot harm the populace. But what constitutes harm? It’s open to interpretation. Maybe the dissident on the street corner, standing on his soapbox, railing against the injustices perpetrated by the government is causing harm. Maybe he needs to be quieted, placed out of sight. Ladies and gentlemen, step this way to your own personal hibernation habitat.

Determining who’s a threat to the government, is decided by the government. This decision is an awesome responsibility which requires great deliberation and care. Tyrannies have shown us throughout history that anyone can be labeled and prosecuted as an enemy of the state in the name of security; the process can potentially be a slippery slope. The easiest way to deal with a dissident is to silence them; the question becomes, though: what is the definition of a dissident?

The Prisoner imagines a near future in which great power has been consolidated into a government security agency; an event set in motion by modern-day American security policy, namely the War on Terrorism. Cortes offers a fair-handed treatment, and his vision of the near future rings plausible; government conspiracies are quite easy to believe in this bleak near future climate.

A large portion of the novel has the main characters wandering through the sewers, avoiding, among other things, vermin, excrement, piles of rendered fat, and snotsicles (Is there a more mellifluous word than snotsicle? I think not.) Unfortunately, this expedition ends up being the science-fiction variation on the wandering in the woods fantasy trope. It’s not particularly engaging other than for a few hair-raising moments where peril to life and limb raises up her skirt.

The majority of the novel’s dramatic tension comes from the cat-and-mouse game played between the prison escapees and the government officials trying to hunt them down, playing like the movie The Fugitive, but with more behind-the-scenes political intrigue. This manhunt is the most engaging aspect of The Prisoner, elevating what would have been a solid science fiction novel into a pretty good one.

The Prisoner may not have the most action-packed, thrill-a-minute narrative and its social commentary may prove divisive to readers. But still, at the end, you’ll feel like it was worth reading. Just watch out for the snotsicles. They’re brutal.

Final Grade: 7.25 out of 10

"The Folding Knife" by K.J. Parker (Orbit)

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The Folding Knife
K.J. Parker
464 pp. Orbit. $14.99
Pub. Date: 2/22/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0316038447

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My esteemed countrymen. Honourable citizens of the great Vesani Republic. Free men and labourers, everywhere. Your eyes—lend them to me—so I can make friends with your ears. Fear not my intentions; we shall speak warmly as lovers do. Come, let us make intimacy. Heed my voice and embrace my words. For Enlightenment and Revelation stands before you in the form of this humble Oracle.

You, honourable citizen—good day to you—tarry a while; no greater truth will you hear this afternoon than that which shall pass my lips. And you—friend eunuch—give pause, your master can wait. Turn away from that produce vendor and heed my message; no cucumber can replace that which has been taken from you, seek solace in my speech. Over there—you, on the Academy steps with that wistful look—young scholar heavenly wisdom does not reside within; look not to the sky for answers, but to the Earth below. Look to me, young friend. For philosophers are but men; old brooks babbling. But I shall speak of something greater, something magnificent.

Citizens, a momentous time is upon each. A time, unprecedented, in the history of our glorious Republic. Choice is upon us; it now resides in the breast of each and every one of you, my friends. We stand on the precipice, unsure, searching for guidance in these terrible times. War looms to the north, its wicked breath hot on our necks. Already our soldiers march for foreign lands, preparing to die. To the South, plague ravages; citizens are perishing, horribly, their insides turned to liquid. Clearly these are dire times in which we live. Terror has become our bedmate, fear our friend.

And what succour does the First Citizen and Senate offer us? Why, nothing. There is only stagnation. Endless deliberation. Or as our barbarous neighbors say, verbal masturbation. Laugh not, you know in your heart I speak true. Our leaders prosper, their bellies warm and full, while we suffer, while children starve. Even as elections near, they ignore our cries and pleas, our collective screams silenced by their marble towers. Neglect. That is what we are left with friends. But you cannot feed your children with neglect.

But wait. Feel that? Across your cheek, through your hair. It is a strong Vesani wind. A wind of change; a wind of hope. For a new candidate emerges for First Citizen; a candidate once the prodigy of sage Antigonus himself. The benevolent banker, the inestimable genius behind the Bank of Charity & Social Justice. Our Light in these times of darkness. Our savior.

Citizens, hear the truth, I can only speak of one man. The honourable Bassianus Severus. Remember the name, my friends. Remember it when you cast your voice for First Citizen. Remember. Basso. The Wise. The Great. The Magnificent. It is the name of Change. It is the name of Hope. Raise your voices with me now, high towards the heavens; let your voices shake the marble towers of our esteemed leaders down to their foundations. Vote for Basso for First Citizen. Because a vote for Basso is a vote for a better Vesani Republic.

[The following political advertisement was paid for by the Vesani Citizens for Basso.]

Endless political machinations abound in K.J. Parker’s The Folding Knife, an excellent mixture of introspective biography and Roman-inspired alternate world fantasy. Think Machiavelli’s The Prince, fictionalized, if Niccolo Machiavelli had been more of a schemer. And was on speed. That’s right. Parker’s protagonist Basso makes Machiavelli look like an utter political neophyte, a bumpkin, and about as shrewd as a member of the U.S. Congress. And it’s this smirking intelligence and introspection which makes The Folding Knife so intriguing. It’s a political manifesto with enough K-Street maneuvers to get you elected Student Body President at your high school. Without even trying. (Which is impressive considering those high school elections are dogfights. Not that I’m bitter.)

The Folding Knife is more than an account of Basso’s life; it’s Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole and taking tea with his cerebullum. Filled with Basso’s thought processes and reasoning laid bare, the novel brings the reader close enough to see the brain synapses firing and to smell the neurotransmitters. (Which smell similar to roasted pumpkin seeds.) It’s the motives behind his actions, and an accounting of his extraordinary luck. And though brilliant and shrewd, Basso is lucky more than anything else. (Granted, he makes most of his luck himself. See, there can be truth in a cliché.) But even his incredible luck cannot save him from his one, and only, mistake.

And most of the book’s intrigue comes from the anticipation of Basso finally making his one mistake. It’s like watching a VH1 Behind the Music special where some silly little character flaw brings down the entire band. Figuring out what Basso’s mistake is becomes a game, like Pin-the-Screw-Up-On-the-Vesani-First-Citizen, ultimately turning into addictive fun.

Parker’s novels have always been detailed character studies, moved more by thought than physical action. Less walk, more talk. Like a bitter geek who plots his revenge on everyone in his parent’s basement—between World of Warcraft sessions—for 18 years. This is Scheming with a capital S. The Folding Knife might be Parker’s most detailed character study yet. Describing the narrative is difficult because it is so fluid, so stream of consciousness; it’s impossible to separate into parts. There are only a few action scenes, and the battles are only described third hand. Utterly unlike typical sword-and-sorcery fantasy, The Folding Knife requires a reader who is looking for a more cerebral experience, who appreciates an academic thought exercise. Who appreciates a political science course in a fantasy book. It’s potentially a divisive work because of this; I can imagine readers either loving it or hating it. Fans of Parker should love it without question though; it’s arguably the best novel she’s written.

One word to summarize The Folding Knife. Unique. Another word: DaAwesome. There’s likely not another fantasy novel out there quite like it. So if you have time, and find yourself near a ballot box, cast a vote for Basso. He truly is Magnificent.

Final Grade: 80 out of 100

Collector's Corner - Mark Charan Newton

Sir Issac Newton. Mark Charan Newton. Both great fantasy writers. Yet only one Newton can rule them all. And that Newton is the one whose siggy I have. Sorry Issac.

"Nights of Villjamur" by Mark Charan Newton (Tor)

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Nights of Villjamur
Mark Charan Newton
451 pp. Tor. ₤16.99
Pub. Date: 6/1/2009
ISBN-13: 978-0230712584

Reviewed by Paul Stotts

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Nothing ruins the world like an impending ice age. (It certainly ruins the hell out of the Summer Olympics.) One day you’re kicking it, lounging in a Hannah Montana beach chair, sand and crab gristle nestling between your toes, the sun’s warm kiss tickling your face, an alcoholic cherry Slurpee loosening your inhibitions, while you obsessively contemplate whether you have volcano nipples. And the next day you’re carrying around Louie-Bloo Raspberry Otter Pops in your shorts while your morning commute consists of bobsledding to work. And you forgot your brakeman.

Soon everything turns whiter than the inside of a bottle of Liquid Paper, the Matterhorn takes up residence in your front yard, a gaggle of Sherpas adorning the summit like a Christmas tree angel in crampons, and Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream cones lose their yummy appeal. And, if that’s not bad enough, getting turned into an unwilling Popsicle just might kill you. As well as your family, and your pets. And your pet’s fleas. Your neighbors, too. And their families, and pets, and acquaintances. And the cute girl down the street; the one you’ve had a crush on since the fifth grade, but never opened up to. (Now’s the time, Casanova. Comb those unruly eyebrows, and make that love connection.) To make a long paragraph longer, essentially everyone’s deader than Gary Coleman’s career. (If you want to say, What you talking about, Willis? here, feel free. I won’t mock you. Much.)

Which leaves us with this: glaciers aren’t fun, and impending extinction ranks somewhere between the last Transformer movie and the U.S. Congress on the Suck-A-Tron scale. So all you can do is grab your parka, stock up on packages of freeze-dried Beef Stroganoff, and hope that you’ll see the Thaw.

Because Winter is coming.

Scratch that; wrong series. Apologize, Mr. Martin.

Let’s reset.

Because The Freeze is coming. Hurry, you don’t want to be caught outside, in the cold, forced to live in disease-infested refugee camps, a miserable frozen death constantly beckoning, lurking within the chill. Safety awaits—a warm bed and food—inside the walls of Villjamur.

If you could only get inside.

I’m going to get positively gushy about Nights of Villjamur. So consider yourself warned; employ slickers if you have to, drool may fly. Bold and outrageous claims will be made; none of them substantiated. None of them supported. Because the Nights of Villjamur is self-evident in its awesomeness. If my newly formed man-crush on author Mark Charan Newton frightens you, hit that back button thingy up top; my rejection will remain between you and Internet Explorer. I’ll bask in the warmth of his excellence alone.

So what is Nights of Villjamur? It’s foul political schemes, and even fouler human beings; it’s heroism and nightmarish monsters, deadly battles and the undead in battle; it’s young love and wicked betrayal, deceit and surprise. It’s the privy, loo, latrine and that crazy French bidet thing. (Okay, that last statement is a lie. I just wanted to type bidet. It’s so fun.)

Both broad in scope and sufficiently detailed, Nights of Villjamur succeeds—like many of the best modern epic fantasy series—because of its adult themes and shrewd political intrigue. There are Machiavellian political shadow games at work here; evil conspires behind the scenes, it does not show its face brazenly. And this is not Dark Lord of the Dead Want To Destroy The World type of evil. This is Screwed-Up, Greedy Human type of evil. It’s the evil we see in real people, the evil featured on the evening news, encapsulated in a grainy mug-shot or lurid paparazzi photo.

Newton refuses to work on a strict good-evil dichotomy; the characters are flawed, psychologically and intellectually; similar to the characters we see in Joe Abercrombie’s oeuvre minus the outright nihilism. There is an introspective quality to the characters, much like K.J. Parker’s books in which wits is the defining weapon. But if there is one author Newton shows the most similarity to, it’s George R.R. Martin. Now Nights of Villjamur doesn’t have nearly the dramatic impact of Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series, but it’s in respectable spitting distance. Like llama spitting close. So if you’re looking for an adult epic fantasy to tide you over until Martin’s next volume, this novel should definitely make your shortlist.

Newton’s language is beautiful and refreshing; his word choice at times is strikingly unique, experimental and genre-pushing. It’s reminiscent of R. Scott Bakker erudite and poetical prose. Which is even more unbelievable considering Newton’s in his twenties. There’s a level of thought and stylistic refinement in the novel that one should only realistically expect from a much more mature author, one that’s semi-retired, is married to one of the Golden Girls, and likes to pot azaleas in his free time.

Now here is where I’m going to go off the tracks, and write something really crazy. Something like: On promise alone, Mark Charan Newton may be the best of the new generation of fantasists. Better than Abercrombie, Scott Lynch, Patrick Rothfuss, Brandon Sanderson, and Peter Brett. Time will only tell. Maybe we’ll even know by the time this ice age is over.

Final Grade: 91 out of 100

"The Garden" by James Dorr (Damnation Books)

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The Garden
James Dorr
48 pp. Damnation Books. $6.99
Pub. Date: 9/1/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1615720149

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Worms. They’re completely overlooked, the Ann B. Davis of the insect world; their brilliance criminally underappreciated. Slimy, wiggly, sometimes parasitic; they’re seemingly a writer’s dream. (Just don’t mention your worm dreams to Freud.) Yet they get passed over, ignored, for the glamour bugs, the sexy bugs, the va-va-voom bugs like spiders and bees; bugs a author can turn out, putting them in high heels, cherry-red lipstick and a push-up bra, before sending them out on the streets to collect wolf-whistles like a five year old stockpiles Legos.

But worms aren’t sexy, they’re plain meets Jane. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a face. Hard to compliment something without a face, makes eye contact difficult. And complimenting them on nice ganglia isn’t going to induce a swoon and win you Lothario points. No worm has ever fallen into someone’s arms, flush with excitement, batting their photoreceptors, while whispering, Oh, you silver-tongued devil.

So who really thinks about worms? Maybe five year olds, the ones troweling up dirt, practicing the long-forgotten art of making mud pies, daring each other to snort an earthworm for that Annelida high. And zoologists who study invertebrates. After that it’s slim pickings on the Jenny Craig diet. Worms just aren’t something people think about. Even though they are everywhere, in everything. Microscopic critters living in our food, our bodies, as well as our world.

James Dorr thinks about worms, though. Thinks enough about these underappreciated invertebrates to put them in The Garden. Didn’t think about worms before? You will after reading this clever novella; in fact, it’ll be hard to get them out afterwards. They’ll burrow into your mind, leaving an indelible mark on your consciousness. And that’s what good horror does, it leaves scar tissue. It leaves you trembling in the wake of a worm, badly dubbed English streaming out of your mouth.

While hiking the Hoosac mountains, graduate student Steven Kerridge stumbles across a wondrous farm that has the most amazing garden he’s ever seen. This bountiful garden is even more incredible because the surrounding land is blighted and infested with weeds, making the farm a surprising oasis in the region. The farm is tended by Alma Sharp, a reclusive young woman who has lived there alone since the death of her parents.

Intrigued by the garden and the scholarly materials left behind by Alma’s father, a famous zoologist whose work Steven is using for his thesis, he decides to stay at the farm for a few days, helping Alma with chores, while studying her father’s work at night. Slowly Steven realizes that the farm and Alma aren’t quite what they seem to be. (Cue the suspense music.)

Despite some passages of exposition which clunk like an angry bear in a Williams-Sonoma store, The Garden works. Works because it has an idea so big, Plato would be impressed (and by extension Socrates would be too); it’s an idea so good, it can’t be screwed up. Even with a pack of stupidity screwdrivers or the drill motor of dumb-assed-ness. (Thankfully, Dorr has neither of these.) The biochemistry in the novella is absolutely fascinating, filled with cool tidbits that’ll have you silently mouthing Wow!, immensely satisfying your inner science geek. This is fun science; it’s even more fun than that one time in lab where the kid you hated burned a swatch of hair off his knuckles.

But the best part is the ending. And it’s not because the book ended before my eyes bled out. No, the ending is fantastic, wildly unpredictable and truly stunning. When I can’t see the ending coming at all, that’s a good ending. (Unless, of course, the resolution is either incredibly odd or mind-numbingly stupid. That’s not stunning; that’s just odd or stupid.)

Oddly, the payoff in The Garden is infinitely better than the setup; the ending really makes it. Everything else is solid, if unspectacular. Steven and Alma are decent characters, just not memorable. Overall, The Garden is a mixed bag; it’s a solid story leading up to an unforgettable conclusion.

Final Grade: 70 out of 100

Collector's Corner - Richard Kadrey

Sandman Slim rocked. And I don't mean rocked like geriatric geezers in Spandex so tight you can ascertain their religion. No, Richard Kadrey's novel is pure punk. Sneering, mean and iconoclastic; it's arson meets poetry. It's burning down the world, one word at a time. Definitely worth the scribble, if you can get it.

"The Somnambulist" by Jonathan Barnes (William Morrow)

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The Somnambulist
Jonathan Barnes
368 pp. William Morrow. $23.95
Pub. Date: 2/5/2008
ISBN-13: 978-0061375385

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My dear reader, I must forewarn you before it becomes too late. Before you have stumbled into a morass of inane literary criticism from which you can not extricate yourself. This review is offensive, insipid and completely devoid of intelligence. It has no value, no critical merit; it is the dung of God’s lowest creature. Please dear reader, heed my warning. Quickly shut your eyes, plunge these misguided ramblings into the fire, and bask in your salvation. Lift your arms to the sky and let the warm light of Our Savior fill your heart.

For the strong-willed fools, or the criminally insane, who shall persevere in reading this missive, I only ask you of one thing. If women or children are in the room as you read this, ask them politely to leave. Let their souls remain innocent and playful, like nymphs splashing and cavorting in the shallows of Lake Edersee. Some discussions are best left for the company of gentlemen, not because of their sternness of character, but rather because of the utter lack of common sense which plagues the masculine gender. Stupidity is our saving grace.

For those foolhardy enough to continue, I fervently pray for you. My only solace is that my nonsensical blabbering will end shortly, which hopefully will limit the terrible scarring done to your soul. If however you wish damage onto my person after reading this letter, pray I remind you that you’ve been warned.

Where to begin? I daresay, the beginning. Utterly cliché, I admit, but you have been warned of the lacking nature of your narrator, of the utter drivel that would spew forth from my quill. Do you now comprehend the lowness of my character? There is still time to stop and turn away; salvation beckons, grab her hand.

We have only just reached the beginning and already I digress. It will likely not be the last time, fair reader. (I shall attempt to keep them to a minimum, though.)

Now let us take The Somnambulist. I speak here of the book, and not the inscrutable man for whom this work was named; I shall talk of him shortly in good time. This literary oddity, authored by a Mssr. Jonathan Barnes, lately a resident of London (whether he is housed upon a ward or not, I could not tell you, dear reader), is disgustedly entertaining, a pleasure I’m reluctant to admit, for polite society would likely view this work as twisted. Mssr. Barnes possesses an incredibly vivid imagination; in fact, it is a rather queer imagination, one which makes me question whether Mssr. Barnes is a gentleman of respectable standing. I do not wish to impugn his reputation (which by all accounts is sterling), but he writes of fantastical (and disreputable) things in which most gentleman would not be so well versed. To wit, in this literary excursion there is most hideous murder, there are worshippers of false idols, and there is (I shudder to even write these words; may Our Savior forgive me) a man who has congress with bearded ladies. (I shall pause why you regain your composure.)

That man happens to be conjurer Edward Moon, a man of extraordinary talents; a man with a mind so shrewd he’s able to unravel the most confounding mysteries. The conundrum is but a child’s toy to him. But despite these unrivaled gifts, Edward would never succeed without his loyal confidante and friend, the impervious Somnambulist. What type of being the Somnambulist is I dare not speculate (however, I sincerely doubt he is a man), for he can receive great violence on his person and suffer no ill effects. Stab him with a sword, pierce his heart, yet he does not bleed. I could proclaim witchcraft at this point, throw up my hands in supplication and pray for forgiveness, but even Mssr. Barnes would not promote such evil arts in a book made generally available (no Englishman would, it’s unfathomable.)

Soon, dear reader, the most depraved murder is committed, a man is thrown to his death from a tower; the villain who perpetrated this foul, dark act vanishes without a trace. The constabulary is confounded, witchcraft may be assumed, so they turn to Edward Moon and the able-bodied Somnambulist in their desperation. Naturally Moon employs his prodigious talents for the good of the state; he is not a rapscallion or degenerate (unlike the characters in those tasteless bodice-rippers penned by Madam Jane Austen. For shame Madam. My only solace is her works will be forgotten in ten years.) However during the course of his investigation Moon discovers a plot most insidious, one that threatens the very pinnacle of civilization, our fair city, London (Pray do not claim this to our prodigal colonists for they will vociferously disagree with this fact, being the obnoxious and ungrateful savages they are. America. Mark my words, in twenty years, they will come back, hat in hand, to the Empire.)

Mssr. Barnes writes with tremendous vigor and aplomb, crafting an entertaining story, despite some low subject matter. The language wonderfully approximates a faux Victorian style, complete with clever asides and a conversing narrator. Mssr. Barnes, though, does write situations which seem incongruous and mind-boggling, almost to the point of surrealism. (Please, this is England Mssr. Barnes, leave the –isms to the French.) Often, as I read, the narrative struck me as odd for the sake of being odd.

The first two acts of The Somnambulist are quite fetching; I’m wary to admit, I even guffawed occasionally; it is the third act where I felt the need to walk out of the theater, in a slightly indignant huff. Mssr. Barnes’s hand at this point is too evident, the narrative becoming too contrived. Only our Lord’s hand should wield such power. I found myself greatly disappointed in the outcome, much like taking spirits with the gentlemen after a fine dinner, only to discover the conversation insipid and dull. With a heavy heart, I write these words: the ending, gold in hand, wouldn’t have even pleased one of our city’s notoriously undiscriminating harlots. (Being a proper gentleman who does not fraternize with these unseemly creatures, I could never validate this claim.)

Though a sinful deviant, Edward Moon is a wonderfully intriguing study, a man who I’d love to share a cigar and snifter of brandy with as he regaled me with his incredible adventures. The Somnambulist, though, was an utter mystery to me; one I craved more of throughout the course of the narrative. Moon’s sister was, unfortunately, nothing more than a superficial plot device, never offering any enlightenment of her brother’s soul.

Mssr. Barnes displays great promise, (For those who claim I am predisposed to my countrymen, I would say this even if Mssr. Barnes was a repugnant American), a vivid imagination, and a pleasing writing style. But like the tragedies of master playwright Shakespeare, events get messy in the third act. However, unlike the tragedies of master playwright Shakespeare, the third act is unfortunately disappointing.

Final Grade: 67 out of 100

"Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story" by Christian Saunders (Damnation Books)

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Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story
Christian Saunders
64 pp. Damnation Books. $7.25
Pub. Date: 9/1/2009
ISBN-13: 978-1615720101

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Say you have a ghost haunting your house, a really annoying one, like more annoying than Adam Sandler after a few hits of helium. It does all the clichéd stuff, rattling chains, going bump in the night, running the washing machine when you’re trying to sleep. (Deep-six the Maytag, Casper, or things won’t be so friendly for you.) It rampages through your linen closet, cutting eyeholes in your sheets, ticking you off. Really if it’s going to be the harbinger of the linen apocalypse, couldn’t it haunt the Bed, Bath and Beyond down the street.

You can’t blame the ghost though; it clearly has nothing better to do in its retirement years than to collect Social Security checks and to hide your stuff. If you were stuck in someone’s house for an eternity, how long could you go before you started messing with them? Ten minutes. Tops. Before hiding the Cocoa Puffs becomes great fun.

Eventually the horns of a dilemma are reached, occasionally with the bull still attached, tenderizing your backside. It’s either you or the ghost. Preferably the ghost, because, hey, you like your house; it’s got great acoustics. So you put on your kick-the-pesky-poltergeist-the-hell-out-of-your-house pants, zip up, and go all Sylvester Stallone on the wayward spirit. And then you realize, you don’t know the first thing about ghost busting. And you don’t know who to call. So you stick it out, ineffectively fighting back, all because you’re too lazy to sell your house. You don’t need the Ghost Hunters; you need a real estate agent and a U-Haul.

But it wouldn’t be much of a ghost story if people didn’t stay. House tells them, in that manly house voice, to get out, and they think, how quaint. Then their kid gets sucked into a TV, and they’re stuck hiring a midget gypsy to get her out, meanwhile they pull out their hair, screaming: Why didn’t we leave when we had a chance?

Answer: You were too lazy to sell your house. Now it’s too late. Have fun searching for your Cocoa Puffs.

Jerry doesn’t even own a house; he’s just renting a nifty apartment in Beijing. Apartment 14F. Only recently arrived in China, he’s just started a new job, teaching conversational English to teenagers. But soon he’ll become fluent in another language—the language of terror. (Chills. Meet Spine.) Plagued by terrible dreams, Jerry soon notices odd happenings in his apartment. Supernatural happenings. Cocoa Puffs gone astray. What’s a poor ESL teacher with a ghost-infested apartment to do?

If you said: Move. You’ve been listening. Gold star for you. Does he move? Of course not. Christian Saunders’s Apartment 14F is a ghost story; moving is not an option. No, Jerry is going Muhammad Ali on some ghostly keister here, intent on getting to the bottom of this mystery quicker than you can say Velma.

Saunders needs to be credited for doing a professional and credible job in this short novella. His portrayal of China and its culture is top-notch, and easily the most interesting aspect of the story. I would have loved to have read more about Jerry’s interaction with the local people and customs.

The ghost story itself pales in comparison; it’s rather weak and lacking imagination except for one killer dream sequence and an unforgettable encounter with a fortune teller who gives Jerry a little too much tongue (and it’s not what you think.) An overabundance of exposition really counteracts any suspense in the book; there is no build up, making the ending seem feeble, packing about as much punch as a flatulent mosquito.

Jerry and his assistant Yin Tao are vividly drawn by Saunders, and the other characters are nicely done. I never felt an emotional connection to Jerry’s plight, though. So I was never more than a disinterested observer, knowing almost intuitively where events were going.

Other than the setting, there really isn’t anything intriguing about Apartment 14F; it’s solid work by Saunders. But that’s it.

Final Grade: 57 out of 100

"The Extra" by Michael Shea (Tor)

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The Extra
Michael Shea
288 pp. Tor. $22.99
Pub. Date: 2/2/2010
ISBN-13: 978-0765324351

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Hollywood. The land of glitz and glamour, of sparkle and sizzle; the “Hollywood” sign preening itself on a hill overlooking the city, basking in the golden richness of its domain, which lies exposed like the throat of a submissive dog. Where the homeless sleep on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, tourists nudging them aside to get a photo of Chuck Norris’s star, waiting. (He was genius in Missing in Action!) Nearby a madman screams at an ATM machine, that sympathetically beeps back, while another group of tourists huddle over a star, murmuring: Leslie Nielsen? Surely you aren’t serious? Serious indeed, serious as Erik Estrada’s star residing in front of an anal bleaching salon, the Spinctorium, just around the corner.

Hollywood. The graveyard of dreams. Where out of work actors wait tables in the local sushi joint, hoping for that big break, hoping to be discovered. To be plucked out of this zoo of humanity, and elevated—into a movie star. Everyday as they return home to their cramped apartment, undiscovered, unimportant, a part of their dream dies, passing with a whimper. Thirty years later, still waiting tables in the same sushi restaurant, the dream is dead, only a vacant shell left behind asking me if I want some Nihonshu with my meal. If Disneyland, fifty miles to the south, is the place where dreams come true, Hollywood would be its anus—the place dreams go to get flushed. Hope’s final resting stop.

Still the wannabe starlets dream, might even pray if there was a church in the Hollywood city limits. If only there was something they could do, some way to distinguish themselves, to rise out of the muck that is their life.

And then a billboard appears, big bold letters scrawled across it as if it was written by some divine hand: Extras Wanted. This billboard, lurking over the 101 freeway, is salvation. And it is also almost certain death.

Being an extra in a movie could net you hundreds of thousands of dollars, enough to escape the city, maybe start up a pig farm out in the 909. Being an extra could also get you killed, fast, and in horrible ways. Chances are, overwhelmingly, you’ll get killed. But it’s worth it, even with a slim chance at survival. That’s how bad life is in the Zoo; it’s worth wagering your life to get out.

So on the appointed day, you kiss your loved ones goodbye, head on down to Panoply Studios, and sign up to be an extra on their latest “live death” extravaganza, Alien Hunger. See, movies have evolved, audiences expect more now, more bang for the buck, more carnage from their celluloid. They expect real deaths, hundreds of them, the more brutal and gory the better. And that’s where you and your fellow extras come in—to die graphically on film, limbs torn asunder courtesy of specially devised killing machines called APPs (Anti-Personnel Properties). Which are big, ugly, vicious mechanical spiders in the case of Alien Hunger. Kill any of these spiders and you’ll earn yourself big money, survive the entire shoot and you’ll earn even bigger money. Maybe even enough to start that pig farm.

Want one word to summarize Michael Shea’s The Extra—brilliant. Like cackling mad scientist, Tesla coils humming in the background brilliant, a heady brew of rapturous glee mixed with malicious intelligence. It’s Swiftian satire written for a reality TV world; the true Amazing Race, where losers go home in a two-ply Hefty bag. Shea writes with an ever present wink and a smirk for his audience, lampooning rich targets like reality TV, the Hollywood system, and socio-economic injustice in America. What would otherwise be a bleak, dismal imagining of the near future, Shea fills with energy and hope; it’s giddiness bottled, the feeling you get seeing the underdog win. Pure literary magic.

Moving quicker than a heart attack suffered by a Chicago Bears fan, The Extra is non-stop entertainment, with action more combustible than a trailer park meth lab. Even though the characters are running around a small city set, trying to survive for the majority of the book, the action never dulls, never feels redundant. Shea keeps events fresh, shocking, and wilder than a Girls Gone Wild: Nymphomaniac Edition DVD.

A huge heart beats at the center of the novel, exemplified by bros-for-life Curtis and Japh who both decide to risk their lives as extras on Alien Hunger. Their relationship, as well as their newly-formed friendships with other characters, is strengthened throughout The Extra. The stress under fire they undergo, not unlike warfare, makes for engaging interactions and bonding between the characters. It’s very similar to the adage that people fighting together form unique bonds, lifetime bonds. Unbreakable bonds. Trust and respect come much easier to someone that’s saved your life, repeatedly.

Want another word to summarize The Extra—how about read it now. I lied, that’s three words. Point is. Read. It. Now. Mug me, mug a friend, mug a Walmart greeter, just get this book. Make the sacrifice, wager the time. And do I need to remind you, there are mechanical spiders. Mechanical spiders!

One of the best books of this year. Or any other year.

Final Grade: 90 out of 100