Series 2, Episode 07: Shriek: An Afterword (review)

Book Review



Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer [Read extracts and deleted scenes]
   —Publication by Pan Macmillan, January 2006
   —Publication by Tor Books, August 2006

There came a night so terrible that no one ever dared to name it. There came a night so terrible that I could not. There came a night so terrible that no one could explain it. There came the most terrible of nights. No, that's not right, either. There came the most terrible of nights that could not be forgotten, or forgiven, or even named. That's closer, but sometimes I choose not to revise. Let it be raw and awkward splayed across the page, as it was in life.

Words would later be offered up like "atrocity," "massacre," and "madness," but I reject those words. They did not, could not, cannot contain what they need to contain.

Could we have known? Could we have wrenched our attention from our more immediate concerns long enough to understand the warning signs? Now, of course, it all seems clear enough. Duncan had said the war could not continue in the same way for long, and he was right.

(Full text review here.)

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Series 2, Episode 06: Flight Is For Those Who Have Not Yet Crossed Over

Literary Reading

"Flight Is For Those Who Have Not Yet Crossed Over" by Jeff VanderMeer [Read]
   —Publication in The Third Alternative no. 17, 1998
   —Reprint in Infinity Plus, 1999
   —Reprint in Secret Life, Golden Gryphon Books, 2004

D'Souza loses his balance, slides slowly down the bars, into the darkness of the floor.

"Take a message to my wife or do not take a message to my wife..."

And then, in a self-mocking tone: "It truly does not matter. I have dreamed of flying to her myself, you know. Flying over this country of El Toreador. My arms are like wings and I can feel the wind cool against my face. All the stars are out and there are no clouds. Such a clear, clean darkness. It seems almost a miracle, such clarity...Below me I can make out the shapes of banana plantations and textile factories. I can tell the green of the rainforest from that of the pampas. I see the ruins of the Maya and the shapes of mountains, distant...and yet when I wake I am still here, in my cell, and I know I am lost."

D'Souza looks up at Gabriel, the whites of his eyes gleaming through the broken mask of his face and says, "My wife's name is Maria D'Souza. When I have died, you must tell her so she can come for my body."

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