Ce weekend:

Quatorze heures de conduite
Deux films
Trois heures de théâtre
Nourriture grec abondant
Le ghetto homosexuel
Le métro
Le Jazz dans le parc
De musique pop sec coréen

Deux semaines d'aujourd'hui: New Orléans!

Horror Writers Association auction beginning May 23rd

Nick Mamatas writes:

"You may remember my note about author/editor Charles Grant, who is in the hospital for an indefinite period and without health insurance.As the bills are piling up, even with New Jersey state assistance, the HWA is having a rather large eBay auction for Charles's benefit...Here are some of the things that will be for sale starting on the 23rd:

Richard SanFilippo at Bantam sent in a copy of 999 with little oval bookplates signed by most if not all of the contributors.

Dan Booth from NECON is contributing two copies of the incredibly rare NECON XX book - with the collaboration between Stephen King and E. A. Poe - has fetched upward of $800 before on eBay because that story has never appeared anywhere except in those 333 copies of the book.

A a box of books from Dean Koontz - 11 in all - every single one of them is a signed, limited edition HC - slip covers - MINT condition.

The hand-typed and edited manuscript of Fred Saberhagen's 1975 Dracula File novel.

Signed Hellraiser scripts ( WGA registered copies ) from Peter Atkins, as well as some cool Wishmaster Stuff.

China Mieville is sending first hardcover edition (UK) of Perdido Street Station, with original pen and ink sketch by the author done as a frontpiece.

There's a ton of other stuff I can't quite find in my email now -- Alice Cooper sent a bunch of signed stuff; Peter Straub sent in a portion of a not-yet-published novel; Stewart O'Nan sent a bunch of his books; Clive Barker sent something really good -- I think it was a book with original art (and unlike China, Claive Barker can draw!); there's some crazy German crap I forget exactly what it is; White Wolf sent a bunch of stuff, all sorts of things. I'm leaving a ton of excellent stuff out too. I want this auction to break five-figures, so prepare to spend, true believers!"


FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
May 13, 2004

Contact Information:
Horror Writers Association
Nicholas Kaufmann,
Trustee
(718) 855-0970
nkaufmann@nyc.rr.com
www.horror.org


AUTHORS RALLY TO HELP ONE OF THEIR OWN

The Horror Writers Association holds auction
to benefit stricken author


NEW YORK, MAY 13. The Horror Writers Association (HWA) is holding a benefit auction for legendary author and editor Charles L. Grant, who has been hospitalized indefinitely with severe cardio-pulmonary disease and emphysema. Mr. Grant, whose body of work spans five decades, faces a tremendous burden on his health and substantial health-related expenses.

In response to this dire situation, the HWA called for contributions to a benefit auction for Mr. Grant. Although HWA is not a charitable organization and contributions could not be considered charitable donations, this didn’t stop a flood of concerned writers, editors and publishers from contributing to this cause.

Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Neil Gaiman, Peter Straub, Clive Barker and nearly fifty other accomplished authors have confirmed contributions to the event. Publishers such as Pocket Books, Tor, Cemetery Dance and Night Shade Books have also contributed.

“The response has been amazing,” said Joe Nassise, president of the Horror Writers Association. “The absolute generosity of everyone involved has been truly overwhelming.”

This two-part fundraiser, being held in conjunction with the HWA’s annual Bram Stoker Awards Banquet weekend, is the first of its kind for the organization. One component of the fundraiser is a high-profile auction to be held on eBay beginning May 23 and running until June 5, the evening of the awards. Bidders can find all auction items by searching the eBay User ID “bookwyrm55.”

The second component is a silent auction to be held on June 4-6 at the HWA annual meeting in New York City where the Bram Stoker Awards will be presented.

THE HORROR WRITERS ASSOCIATION (HWA) is a worldwide organization of writers and publishing professionals dedicated to promoting dark literature and the interests of those who write it. HWA was formed in the late 1980's with the help of many of the field's greats, including Dean Koontz, Robert McCammon, and Joe Lansdale. Today, with over 1,000 members around the globe, it is the oldest and most respected professional organization devoted to the genre.

For more information or to arrange an interview, please contact Nicholas Kaufmann at nkaufmann@nyc.rr.com

The fifth graders are visiting the Springfield Armory. Henry really ought to meet them at the door:

     The Arsenal at Springfield

THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
   Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
   Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
   When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
   Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
   The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
   In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
   Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
   O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
   Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
   Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
   The shouts that every prayer for mercy drowns;
   The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
   The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder
   The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
   With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
   And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
   Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
   There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd!
   And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
   Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
   The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
   I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
   The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
   The holy melodies of love arise.

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

I can only imagine Rabbi K's face, and it wouldn't be the Miserere or the "voice of Christ" that would make it so. Peace?

Why I don't see Abu Ghraib making a long-term impact on current policy
or: Why The Fuss, Son?

Sixty. One a.m.


Herida de Amor

Ah, it's been a long time, no? the waiter says.
Yes, I say, unsure. I am the only customer.
I ask for a Budweiser. You are always doing that,
he says, Here you should drink Mexican beer.

He gestures to a poster on the wall.
A woman in a dress patterned with small bright birds,
dances and holds a bottle of Pacifico,
the birds swirling around her.

OK, I nod. I have never been in this restaurant.
I've never seen this man who greets me.
There's the last squint of daylight
through the window. A blurred sun
burns down behind the hills.

He brings the Mexican beer, takes my order,
and sits at the table.
Do you remember the watch I used to wear? he says.
No, I say. He rolls up his sleeve,
revealing the pale outline on his brown skin
where the watch used to be.
I gave it to a woman, he says,
and now I am sad
because the watch is gone and so is she.

With his fingertips he flicks
some specks of salt from the checkered cloth.
He lowers his head, speaking softly,
Now I have all this time to think of her
and no watch.

He gets up and puts a quarter in the jukebox.
The song sung in Spanish
is a song of pain.
I hear him in the kitchen singing,
Herida de amor.

I listen and remember.
Although the woman I'm thinking of
never wore a design of birds,
I see her coming to me
in just such a dress.

I hear the sigh,
the sound the dress makes
when it slips off her body
and she steps out of it

and all those bright birds flutter down,
huddle together on the floor.
The waiter brings my order.
He looks out the window,
the feminine outline of the silhouetted hills.
It is always darkest at night, he says
without irony. And I know
what he means, know he is right.

He's not talking about the night,
but the second night, the dark
within the dark when I wake and wonder,
Where did she go?

And I am left to imagine a migration
of beautiful birds and women.
The women dancing, the birds flying around them
down in Mexico.

-- Gary Short