Diluent Scream #36: rent asunder. May 2013. €9.99 print. 56 pages.
It's a wonder to me this concept-themed horror magazine has been regularly published for almost ten years already, surviving as it has with almost no promotion or exposure, print-only distribution, a complete lack of name authors (or even authors whose names the average Anglophone ignoramus could easily pronounce), and content of a diversity and heterogeneity that frankly impresses me. Fiction, poetry, badly drawn monochrome comics, short stream-of-consciousness essays, and rambling editorials from a character named Pseudonymous Editor, all of which are more hit than miss (but only just). Authors and poets (or at least their avatars) from all parts of the known world, many writing in their second or third language, not especially targeting the North American audience. It's a joy to dip into and out of an issue of this 'zine when it infrequently turns up on a newsstand or convention miscellany table; you know that you're going to be surprised, perhaps shocked, sometimes bemused, but never bored. |
| Diluent Scream 36: "more hit than miss" |
The content, as usual, all follows this theme fairly closely. István Kövér's eighteen-line poem, Inside Myself for example, is an autobiographical account of a botched surgery, starting appropriately enough with clinical imagery, all clean colors and antiseptic smells and emotionless sounds, then quickly eschewing visual imagery altogether: presumably as the protagonist falls under the anaesthetic. The fleshy sounds and cursing surgeon, who sounds more like a frustrated motor mechanic than a saviour of human life, ring claustrophobically as the reader is drawn under, blind, powerless, sick to the stomach. The climax is an ice-pick to the balls; that the patient apparently survived this incompetent operation does nothing to soften the blow. I have to say I didn't like this poem. It was not free-form, but nor did it adhere to its conventions particularly elegantly, and while a powerful--nae, gut-wrenching--piece, as verse it could have been stronger. (Apparently it rhymes in Hungarian.)
Ngaio Whetu gives us the most conventional story in this issue, Frackin Rackin, a short (barely over three-page, as the fourth is largely taken up with a charcoal illustration) bizarro piece about a Disney-esque cartoon character who delights in violating and ecgastricating a series of cute and delightful antagonists. We've seen this before: content that would be offensive, pornographic, repugnant, and provocative in any other genre is acceptable and even de rigeur in bizarro, because that's how they roll. The only thing that rescues this litany of limping bunnies and one-kidney-short baseball-capped mice parading out of the scene from complete oblivion is the fact that the description of the saccharine, apple-pie wholesome animated creature are perfectly captured, and are so revoltingly American that their humiliation and suffering is almost warranted.
Overnight Crossing begins as a classic noir, and Viltė Astrauckas retains the tone and form of that genre throughout this robust and substantial story, but the content soon veers into the nightmarish, the surreal, the splatterpunk, the paranormal, the religious passion, the portmanteau. I was confused for a good part of this story, which is fine for a crime piece, but I was equally baffled at the end, which is less satisfying. A sour and unconvincing minor detail (that I'll not spoil, as the whole story hangs together remarkably coherently) left a lingering bad taste in my mouth, and I'm afraid that disappointment soured the whole experience for me. It's a shame, because this really is a work of almost-genius, and I now know to look out for other fiction by Astrauckas--if she ever publishes more work in English.
An untitled, semi-literate rant by Geghard Moushian, while a little hard to follow, is amusing if only for its sheer, exaggerated fury and bombastic self-importance. I've never heard of this author before, and wouldn't really expect to again, but certainly wasn't disappointed by this fucked up little piece. P.E. sure knows how to pick 'em. Aaminah Afra's Heart of a Woman is a uniquely Moroccan poem, printed here in parallel Arabic and English translation (although there's something wrong with the Arabic font, making it hard to read), using the twin metaphors of nakedness and self-evisceration to explore in less than a single page issues of personal autonomy, the comfort of modest dress, and public versus private lives. What a moving little poem--although again I bet it was technically better in the original.
The longest piece in this issue is the commendable Sasithorn Metharom's Dreams of a Panic in the Endless Sky, which is an epic science fiction journey to the stars in a biological ship so futuristic as to be unrecognisable. Or is it an Earth-based queer fantasy of inner space and spiritual warfare, of demons and animal spirits and protector gods and rebellious humans spanning time and place in a struggle so important its terms and its consequences are never even whispered? Or is it a contemporary, drug-fueled nightmare of a political prisoner having her organs harvested by a colonial regime, trying to preserve her identity while facing the recognition that there is no mind/body divide, that your spleen or your ovary contributes as much to your personality as your eyes or your amygdala? Well, it's sort of all of those things, and much more that the reader brings to it themself, while not being obviously or unequivocally any of them. And despite what may sound from my description like an intolerably pretentious mess, Dreams of a Panic in the Endless Sky is a wonderful read, fine science fiction and literature at the same time, and really deserves to be on several 2013 award shortlists.
Imeda Isidore Tamaz offers a short, predictable, twist-ending flash fiction story about an unexpected Valentine's Day present, charmingly titled VD Day, and provoking barely a twitched eyebrow. It's well written, I'll give it that much: beautiful prose and masterful concision of language. Just a stupid idea. P.E. fills a bit more space with another of their rambling opinion columns, but this one could have been written by their infant child, for all the effort and coherence that went into it. If they weren't such a demonstrably talent editor, I'd say they were a complete fuckwit on this evidence.
Finally, a prosimetric long poem (in the Haibun style, if I'm not mistaken, although loosely translated if so) from M.T. Chika. Nikki's Diary (the title is a pun) alternates between voices and tenses, and gently treats the subject of an adolescent girl's fear of her own body and body autonomy in the face of the changes she's going through, via the metaphor of classic serial killer movies she watches against her parents' prohibition. This may be the weirdest piece in the issue, but in a genre that venerates the Weird and a magazine that pushes the boundaries, that's quite an achievement.
