Prominent on the lists of popular commercial fiction and television today is a category called “Scandi-Noir” or “Nordic Noir,” characterized by a police point of view, plain language, bleak landscapes, a dark and morally complex mood, and murder, of course. As I began Vic Peterson’s novel The Berserkers (Hawkwood Books, 240 pages), I was anticipating exactly that sort of genre experience. The first chapter, depicting a crime scene investigation on a frozen lake, did not begin to alter my expectations until its final two paragraphs:
“A pale tangle lay beside the hole the girl had been sunk in. It then dawned on me that the pale tangle was the girl. Her body lay sprawled on top of the ice, displaced by the minor tsunami of the sinking car, and ejected from the ice like the cork from a champagne bottle. Her clothes spread about her in wet snarls lurid under the dim sun, a cape and corset and stockings.
The girl’s pallor was blue and ruinous. My jaw slackened. I tried to utter some words, any words, whether of shock, wisdom, or warning. No sound emanated from my lips. For a pair of large wings had begun unfolding around the corpse, beautiful, wispy, shivering with each gust like the pinfeathers of a hatchling drying in the dying light.”
New Book Announcement
My first novel just emerged into the world after too many years in gestation. It has a strong Hudson Valley NY presence but also ventures to Utah deserts and further foreign hotspots. In addition to the blurbs on the website, I like John Burdick’s take on it in the Almanac Weekly: “Ponckhockie Union is a mad fireworks display of global conspiracy and paranoia, haunted synchronicities, shadow-world manipulations of history, tricksters and false guides and the sudden and irreparable rupture of everything normal and stable in one man’s life. It also posits a model of what a sturdy self might look like after such a rupture, after acute exposure to the things going on underground and overhead. And it takes place down by the Rondout.” That’s a reference to the creek adjoining the Ponckhockie neighborhood of Kingston, NY, where the British landed in 1777 to burn down New York’s first capital. But historical fiction this is not. There are shadowy assassins, but it’s not a “whodunit;” perhaps a “who-am-I” is more accurate. With a pinch of metafiction thrown in. Available online and by order at bookstores.
The following is my editorial of Arthur Graham’s Editorial (Bizarro Press Edition, 149 pages).
The following (edited) definitions of editorial are from Dictionary.com:
noun — an article presenting the opinion of the editor.
Whoever the editor is–the unnamed narrator, a young orphan who remembers “days of reading and masturbating in my room” but doesn’t remember, at the time of telling, what his age was (17 or 28)–is dumped by auntie and uncle into the cruel sea of the outside world with his heavy burden, a suitcase filled with dirty magazines. The narrator assumes that the reader is surprised: Continue reading