Sneaking out on tiptoe with our suitcase down dark stairs, then along dark streets with only garbage trucks for company. With one suitcase still on the curb, abandoned, orphaned, alone, Comrade Snarky sits down and says, “Okay.” Comrade Snarky tucks the luggage tag in her olive-green pocket, then lifts the second suitcase and steps up into the bus. ,” Saint Gut-Free says into the microphone that hangs above his steering wheel.Īnd Comrade Snarky says, “Fine.” She leans down to unbuckle a luggage tag off one suitcase. With a black beret pulled down tight on her head, she could be anyone. When the bus pulls to the corner where Comrade Snarky had agreed to wait, she stands there in an army-surplus flak jacket-dark olive-green-and baggy camouflage pants, the cuffs rolled up to show infantry boots. No, this was only a writers' retreat until it was too late for us to be anything, It doesn't matter who we were as people, not to old Mr.
Spring, summer, winter, autumn-one whole season of that year.
Too many of us, locked away from the world for one whole A lot of hot, sticky blood.Īnd we were supposed to write short stories. Real intestines, real lungs, a beating heart, blood. As if you cut open a rag doll and found inside: Names based on our sins instead of our jobs:īased on our faults and crimes. The names we earned, based on our stories. You called peonies-sticky with nectar and crawling withĪnts-the “ant flower.” You called collies: Lassie Dogs.īut even now, the same way you still call someone “that man with one leg.” The same way-when you were little-you invented names for the plants andĪnimals in your world. Locked away from the ordinary world for three months.Īnd we called each other the “Matchmaker.” And the “Missing Link.” Run by an old, old, dying man named Whittier,Īnd we were supposed to write poetry. It was supposed to be safe.Īn isolated writers' colony, where we could work, It is a narrative detail at the very end – if any of you have read Haunted, please let me know if you have had similar thoughts.This was supposed to be a writers' retreat. I have only one issue with this book, though I suppose it is an aspect of the story which is somewhat open to interpretation. The oppression in the details of the mundane, of the abruptly bizarre, is like a character in and of itself. Without going into much detail – discovering the beautifully molding, surreal setting of the book is a delightful revelation I would hate to deprive a would-be reader of – it is a place where it is easy to imagine everyone’s demons coming out to play. One of the most compelling elements of this book, besides the band of increasingly diabolical characters, is the atmosphere.
HAUNTED CHUCK PALAHNIUK HOT POTTING TORRENT
They are actually quite moving character studies amid a torrent of bloodshed and sexual depravity.
All the poems that precede the short stories, they left me breathless. Stories like “Guts” and “Hot Potting” make it hard to eat lunch afterward. There is tons of squicky business in all of his books, though this one probably takes the cake. No name is a throwaway name, no questionable eccentricity is ever left unexplained by the last page. Do it ASAP.) He is quickly becoming my favorite author in the way he is able to sew stories without ever dropping a stitch. ( Rant, a story I voraciously audiobooked in the summer of 2010, is one of the most intricately told stories about childhood, home, time travel, and demolition derbies you will ever find. The mythology that will make them famous and rip them to shreds. “The Story of Us,” as they call it, the story of a group of people peppered with unusual personalities such as Lady Baglady, Mother Nature, and The Missing Link. The stories are told by the writers, prisoners to this unique promise stories to pass the time, ignore their restraints, and to declare themselves the true hero of the big, grand finale.
HAUNTED CHUCK PALAHNIUK HOT POTTING FULL
Would you abandon your life for three months to create your masterpiece? Just one suitcase, a pre-dawn bus to Somewhere Else full of strangers, and three months of isolation.
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