“And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper.”
Mary Shelley, introduction to the third edition of Frankenstein, 1831
I was really excited to receive this publication. Upon first opening the mysteriously mangled manila envelope that arrived and was stuffed like an Andouille sausage into my mailbox, I thumbed through and was thrilled by the format, images and *gasp* poetry. I giggled maniacally like the good Dr. Frankenstein in every B movie rendition of the monster story. Then I read it. One word: anti-climactic (or would that be two words?) Am I being harsh? Sorry. I must be thinking of that invaluable piece of advice about “something being a good example of what not to do.” That ‘what not to do’ is to write trite, light blight in spite of the white-knuckled urge. Okay? See? Did you enjoy that, dear reader? Probably not. So, yes, it was a beautiful publication, autographed and inscribed by the editor, and full of a variety of work: poetry, short stories, art, flash fiction, interviews. Wow! But then I read it. Yes. Every page.
First, let’s start with what I supposedly specialize in: (besides horror, the supernatural, and being snarky, of course) Poetry. Yes, I admit that I’m a bit of a poetry snob. And, most normal people don’t ‘get’ Ezra Pound. Most people don’t even read Pound. So, not only am I showing my poetry geekery, I suppose, I’m in that abnormal group of poetry lovers that loves ‘high’ poetry. Abby-normal, is I. Frankenstein jokes aside, these poetry selections were abysmal, or would that be abby-smal.
While my idoI, Mr. Pound, would have advised to “Either move or be moved” the only thing moving in these poetry selections were my bowels. Additionally, I have very rarely ever groaned aloud while reading sonnets, unless of course the readings were preceded by a nasty bout of botulism, but the ones in this publication caused me to groan and guffaw. Yes, their form was spot-on; that wasn’t the problem. I was once told by a very successful poet, who is still living I might add, to never go for the easy rhyme. I guess our scary poets never heard this bit of sensible advice. Also it takes more than an ABBA rhyme scheme to create an enduring piece of poetry. And don’t even get me started on their voltas. Oy vay! Sonnets were not the only poetic form represented in Midnight Echo, but there are even less positive things that I could say about those Free Verse forms. At least, the sonnet writers (or would that be sonneteers?) worked within a relatively challenging form. Sonnets aren’t easy, and neither was reading some of them. Fortunately a good glass of wine washed their taste out of my mouth.
The interviews seemed a little vain and gimmicky. I didn’t even know who those persons were that they interviewed. Perhaps, if I had known a bit more about Australian horror, that might’ve helped. But, I don’t. I’m a stupid, ethnocentric American who thinks monsters are everywhere. And, after living nearly four years in the land of Bigfoot, I know my monsters!
But back to this Frankensteinian conceit, the publication was pieced together rather well; I could hardly notice the doctor’s fine stiches. Har har. Several of the short stories were actually quite enjoyable and engaging. For instance, Christopher Sequeira’s “Too Many Number 16’s” was a tasty read. I say “tasty” because the story is centered on a stocker who works in a grocery store. I liked the visuals, and the use of, what to my very ‘merr-i-can ear sounded like, authentic Aussie lingo. The fact that a grocery store stockroom can be made scary is unique. I like unique. Except when it’s obsequious, and that’s what Midnight Echo’s poetry was like for me: doggerel and deliberate. Unlike the monster’s deliberate demise by Ms. Shelley, I want my monsters alive, and kicking. This brings me to another monstrous issue: the killer kangaroos of “Hunting Rufus” by Jason Fischer. They seemed like cuddly creatures, until reading this tale of meat-eating “Mangaroos.” Holy Marsupial!
While I have always wanted to visit Australia, the image of a kangaroo-esque mega monster standing 3 meters tall (that’s almost 10 feet for us stupid Americans) is indeed quite frightening. I have to admit, that image will live with me when (or if) I ever make it to the land down under. In Mr. Fischer’s lively story it takes the bloody RAAF to take these ‘manga-monsters’ out. Or did they? That’s one element of this story that I really enjoyed. We don’t know how it ends. The author doesn’t gift wrap the ending like some cuddly Christmas package; he leaves us wondering whether it’s the Monster-roos that are made extinct, or mankind. Either way, it made me look at Kanga and Roo in a completely different perspective. Fortunately, this story wasn’t pure Pooh.
One or two of the prose selections were, indeed, sinkers. Sadly, one of the sinkers was “Allure of the Ancients” by Mark Farrugia (story) and Greg Chapman (pictures). It was refreshing to see a graphic story represented within this collection. I’ve always been a fan of the graphic novel/story, and have been known to own quite a few plain ol’ comic books. Sadly, this selection seemed more high school publication than Australian Horror Writers Association worthy. The story was stilted; the graphics amateurish. I will say that I thought the premise of using WWI as a backdrop was interesting. I had such hopes when I first saw that “Allure” was using WWI as the field for the vampire trope.
Tropes aside, this was a very visually interesting periodical. While some of the art was not Grade A, the overall effort was interesting and stimulating. “The Weight of Children’s Stories” by Aaron Polson was one such example of written work that was unique, yet hearkened back to other gifted writers without overtly ripping off other ‘better’ writers. Polson didn’t quite pull off the Lovecraft-ian, or Stephen King, ideals, but it was a solid effort – a definite B+. His use of the desert environment was thought-provoking. It was kind of a Lovecraft meets The Arabian Nights with a little Stand by Me, or The Goonies, thrown in for good measure. I do like it when the writer uses an alternate environment; say a desert instead of New Orleans. What’s even better is when they can keep me from guessing the end of the story, until the end, of course. I know, I sound like a cynic; however, when you read for a living, you’re bound to notice when something’s a bit overdone. Like vampires in New Orleans, or Frankenstein’s monster. Nevertheless, I eagerly await the next issue of Midnight Echo. My only hope is that the editors improve their poetry selections, advance their graphic stories to a professional level, and increase the number of pages. After all, I was left wanting more. Like any good American consumer, I can’t get enough of a good thing.
