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moonlit_shelves's review against another edition
dark
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.0
typicalbooks's review against another edition
4.0
There are a few pieces in here that will stick with me for a long time. More than the entire story, there are places, scents, feelings linked to my own memories and as odd as it sounds - levels of humidity about this book that have staying power. A great collection with few soft spots.
joecam79's review
5.0
Shadows and Tall Trees is the title of the seventh chapter of William Golding’s modern classic Lord of the Flies. It is a particularly unsettling section of the book, haunted by a sense of lurking, undefined danger and by the disturbing realisation that evil but may be lurking within each and every individual.
This baggage of associations makes Shadow and Tall Trees an ideal name for editor Michael Kelly’s anthology series of weird fiction, published by Canadian press Undertow Publications. The series is now in its eighth instalment and having devoured this latest volume over a weekend, I feel I have joined – alas, quite late – just my kind of party. This collection, in fact, is characterised by fiction which could presumably count as “horror” but whose terrors are more elusive than the mainstream fare.
The opening story – The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell by Brian Evenson – provides a perfect example of what one should expect. Hekla, the protagonist, unwillingly joins a spiritual retreat or workshop in a remote house outside the city. The initial pages suggest that this story will pan out into either a haunted house or a typical “slasher” scenario. What we get, however, is something much stranger and nightmarish. This is not the only story with a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere – another one is The Somnambulists by Simon Strantzas, featuring a hotel powered by dreams.
Conspicuous by their absence are the well-established monsters of the horror genre: there are no vampires, no werewolves and no malevolent clowns, although Dollface by Seán Padraic Birnie features what appears to be an evil doll. Ghosts do appear, but possibly not in the guise one would expect. Alison Littlewood, fresh from her supernatural/timeslip novel Mistletoe (my review here) contributes Hungry Ghosts, a tale set in contemporary Hanoi and inspired by the Vietnamese festival of the dead - a familiar premise is made stranger by the unfamiliar context. A Coastal Quest by Charles Wilkinson is a bittersweet story of a woman escaping an oppressive household, doubling as a tale of ghosts. In Camera Obscura by C.M. Muller, a city photographer shoots a derelict farmhouse haunted by a supernatural being. It’s an entity which borrows as much from Scandinavian folklore as from classic ghost stories, giving this piece a folk horror feel. The same atmosphere permeates Down to the Roots by Neil Williamson, about a high-flying businessman who returns to the small Scottish village of his childhood.
Previous volumes of Shadows and Tall Trees have won prizes and accolades. Peter Straub (no less) has described it as “a smart, soulful, illuminating investigation of the many forms and tactics available to those writers involved in one of our moment’s most interesting and necessary projects, that of opening up horror literature to every sort of formal interrogation”. This volume is, indeed, a cross-section of the contemporary wealth of innovative horror writing. Editor Michael Kelly’s judicious choices ensure that the anthology comprises a variety of subjects, as well as different styles and approaches. Some stories, for instance, set out to be original in form and structure. Tattletale by Carly Holmes has the punch of flash fiction – it’s over in a flurry of dark, violent metaphors. KL Pereira’s You, Girls Without Hands delivers its potent feminist message in six, very brief chapters. The Quiet Forms of Belonging by Kristi DeMeester adopts a style close to prose poetry, rich in metaphors and images which seem to be taken from dark fairy tales. Workday by Kurt Fawver is a Chine-Mieville-like critique of capitalist society, in which increasingly urgent anonymous warnings delivered to the employees of “Corivdan Incorporated” urging them not to attend the corporation’s holiday party because they are “in grave danger”, are countered by reassuring emails and memos issued by management. The piece has no characters, no dialogue and no narrative in the usual sense of the word, consisting solely of these sparring exchanges.
The contemporary feel of this anthology, however, is not based only on originality of form but also on the timeliness of the subjects. This is indeed proof that genre fiction is no mere escapism (although there would be nothing wrong with that) but can also be the means to address burning issues and concerns. Thus, the eco-Gothic The Sound of the Sea, Too Close by James Everington references climate change, global warming and the rise in sea levels; the darkly comic The Fascist has a Party by M. Rickert parodies a recognisable President, who remains unnamed in the text (and will remain unnamed in this review); Rebecca Campbell’s Child of Shower and Gleam portrays the suffering of an abusive relationship. One could also mention Lacunae by V.H. Leslie, whose musical subject makes it one of my favourite stories in the anthology. The young wife of a composer past his prime takes him back to a remote Scottish island. The landscape had purportedly provided the inspiration for his best-known work and the couple hope that his talents will be rekindled. We discover, however, that not only was his famous composition co-written but his (uncredited) first wife, but also that its haunting theme and unusual structure were wholly her creation. Classical music is passing through its own #metoo moment, with powerful figures unmasked as sexual predators and its ‘traditional’ white male canon increasingly put in question. “Lacunae” fits the mood perfectly. It chimes in with Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir's recent Oscar-acceptance speech and its tribute "to the girls, to the women, to the mothers, to the daughters who hear the music bubbling within...please speak up. We need to hear your voices"
Whilst one appreciates and admires the “timeliness” of these stories and their subjects, it would be wrong to overlook the intrinsic capacity of horror and the Gothic to address “timeless” fears. Pieces like Sleepwalking with Angels by Steve Rasnic Tem, about an old widower who is succumbing to dementia, or Steve Toase’s Green Grows the Grief which presents us with a woman whose sanity unravels following the death of her father, are a reminder that some terrors never change. Loss, pain, growing old, mortality – throughout the ages, these shadows have stalked our worldly existence. Stories might be a way to exorcise them.
Shadows and Tall Trees is a superb collection. It feels like taking a trip outside reality, only to come back and perceive it with brighter, sharper edges.
This baggage of associations makes Shadow and Tall Trees an ideal name for editor Michael Kelly’s anthology series of weird fiction, published by Canadian press Undertow Publications. The series is now in its eighth instalment and having devoured this latest volume over a weekend, I feel I have joined – alas, quite late – just my kind of party. This collection, in fact, is characterised by fiction which could presumably count as “horror” but whose terrors are more elusive than the mainstream fare.
The opening story – The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell by Brian Evenson – provides a perfect example of what one should expect. Hekla, the protagonist, unwillingly joins a spiritual retreat or workshop in a remote house outside the city. The initial pages suggest that this story will pan out into either a haunted house or a typical “slasher” scenario. What we get, however, is something much stranger and nightmarish. This is not the only story with a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere – another one is The Somnambulists by Simon Strantzas, featuring a hotel powered by dreams.
Conspicuous by their absence are the well-established monsters of the horror genre: there are no vampires, no werewolves and no malevolent clowns, although Dollface by Seán Padraic Birnie features what appears to be an evil doll. Ghosts do appear, but possibly not in the guise one would expect. Alison Littlewood, fresh from her supernatural/timeslip novel Mistletoe (my review here) contributes Hungry Ghosts, a tale set in contemporary Hanoi and inspired by the Vietnamese festival of the dead - a familiar premise is made stranger by the unfamiliar context. A Coastal Quest by Charles Wilkinson is a bittersweet story of a woman escaping an oppressive household, doubling as a tale of ghosts. In Camera Obscura by C.M. Muller, a city photographer shoots a derelict farmhouse haunted by a supernatural being. It’s an entity which borrows as much from Scandinavian folklore as from classic ghost stories, giving this piece a folk horror feel. The same atmosphere permeates Down to the Roots by Neil Williamson, about a high-flying businessman who returns to the small Scottish village of his childhood.
Previous volumes of Shadows and Tall Trees have won prizes and accolades. Peter Straub (no less) has described it as “a smart, soulful, illuminating investigation of the many forms and tactics available to those writers involved in one of our moment’s most interesting and necessary projects, that of opening up horror literature to every sort of formal interrogation”. This volume is, indeed, a cross-section of the contemporary wealth of innovative horror writing. Editor Michael Kelly’s judicious choices ensure that the anthology comprises a variety of subjects, as well as different styles and approaches. Some stories, for instance, set out to be original in form and structure. Tattletale by Carly Holmes has the punch of flash fiction – it’s over in a flurry of dark, violent metaphors. KL Pereira’s You, Girls Without Hands delivers its potent feminist message in six, very brief chapters. The Quiet Forms of Belonging by Kristi DeMeester adopts a style close to prose poetry, rich in metaphors and images which seem to be taken from dark fairy tales. Workday by Kurt Fawver is a Chine-Mieville-like critique of capitalist society, in which increasingly urgent anonymous warnings delivered to the employees of “Corivdan Incorporated” urging them not to attend the corporation’s holiday party because they are “in grave danger”, are countered by reassuring emails and memos issued by management. The piece has no characters, no dialogue and no narrative in the usual sense of the word, consisting solely of these sparring exchanges.
The contemporary feel of this anthology, however, is not based only on originality of form but also on the timeliness of the subjects. This is indeed proof that genre fiction is no mere escapism (although there would be nothing wrong with that) but can also be the means to address burning issues and concerns. Thus, the eco-Gothic The Sound of the Sea, Too Close by James Everington references climate change, global warming and the rise in sea levels; the darkly comic The Fascist has a Party by M. Rickert parodies a recognisable President, who remains unnamed in the text (and will remain unnamed in this review); Rebecca Campbell’s Child of Shower and Gleam portrays the suffering of an abusive relationship. One could also mention Lacunae by V.H. Leslie, whose musical subject makes it one of my favourite stories in the anthology. The young wife of a composer past his prime takes him back to a remote Scottish island. The landscape had purportedly provided the inspiration for his best-known work and the couple hope that his talents will be rekindled. We discover, however, that not only was his famous composition co-written but his (uncredited) first wife, but also that its haunting theme and unusual structure were wholly her creation. Classical music is passing through its own #metoo moment, with powerful figures unmasked as sexual predators and its ‘traditional’ white male canon increasingly put in question. “Lacunae” fits the mood perfectly. It chimes in with Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir's recent Oscar-acceptance speech and its tribute "to the girls, to the women, to the mothers, to the daughters who hear the music bubbling within...please speak up. We need to hear your voices"
Whilst one appreciates and admires the “timeliness” of these stories and their subjects, it would be wrong to overlook the intrinsic capacity of horror and the Gothic to address “timeless” fears. Pieces like Sleepwalking with Angels by Steve Rasnic Tem, about an old widower who is succumbing to dementia, or Steve Toase’s Green Grows the Grief which presents us with a woman whose sanity unravels following the death of her father, are a reminder that some terrors never change. Loss, pain, growing old, mortality – throughout the ages, these shadows have stalked our worldly existence. Stories might be a way to exorcise them.
Shadows and Tall Trees is a superb collection. It feels like taking a trip outside reality, only to come back and perceive it with brighter, sharper edges.
pearseanderson's review against another edition
2.0
I am sorry to say that this antho surprised me with how so many of the stories left me saying "eh, that was a waste." Just like The Dream operator collection. Bouncing off of Vandermeer's Borne, a ton of these stories were about people taking care of non-human child-like creatures, all of which they treated as a family member: they weren't done as well as Borne. They fell flat for me, dawg. A lot took place in rando English towns, so it was great to see a regional Weird piece like Manish Melwani's, which I thought needed a bit more plot but loved the background of. Pieces like "Sun Dogs," "We Can Walk It Off Come The Morning," and "Slimikins" were so incredibly basic in their design, I felt bored reading them. Some great prose though! Really poetic sentences at times, good bits of characterization, but twists that could be seen from seven miles away and arcs that didn't do anything to my brain. Why, Brian Evenson, did your "Line of Sight" story go not really anywhere?! Alison Moore, what am I missing from your piece? Where is the Weird?
This anthology is a 5/10. The best pieces came in the last third, with Michael Wehunt not disappointing, and the last two bits, "The Triplets" and "Dispossession" doing great things with summary and voice, but beyond that, woof.
The BEST thing in this is "The Swimming Pool Party" by Robert Shearman. Of course it is. This is one of the scariest things I have read in a while, and taking it in outside of Bombay Grill, an Indian restaurant my friends were late to, was great. I felt strong emotion. I was frightened. I understood everything to the degree that was necessary. It was a brilliant horror story, something I have not seen before, and something that rivals his last piece, "Blood," magnificently. Very happy he'll be taking over for Year's Best Weird Fiction 5.
Connection: I am friends with Michael Kelly on FB, and have talked to him a couple of times. I also interviewed Michael Wehunt and am friends with him. Oh, and Simon Strantzas.
This anthology is a 5/10. The best pieces came in the last third, with Michael Wehunt not disappointing, and the last two bits, "The Triplets" and "Dispossession" doing great things with summary and voice, but beyond that, woof.
The BEST thing in this is "The Swimming Pool Party" by Robert Shearman. Of course it is. This is one of the scariest things I have read in a while, and taking it in outside of Bombay Grill, an Indian restaurant my friends were late to, was great. I felt strong emotion. I was frightened. I understood everything to the degree that was necessary. It was a brilliant horror story, something I have not seen before, and something that rivals his last piece, "Blood," magnificently. Very happy he'll be taking over for Year's Best Weird Fiction 5.
Connection: I am friends with Michael Kelly on FB, and have talked to him a couple of times. I also interviewed Michael Wehunt and am friends with him. Oh, and Simon Strantzas.
joecam79's review against another edition
5.0
Shadows and Tall Trees is the title of the seventh chapter of William Golding’s modern classic Lord of the Flies. It is a particularly unsettling section of the book, haunted by a sense of lurking, undefined danger and by the disturbing realisation that evil but may be lurking within each and every individual.
This baggage of associations makes Shadow and Tall Trees an ideal name for editor Michael Kelly’s anthology series of weird fiction, published by Canadian press Undertow Publications. The series is now in its eighth instalment and having devoured this latest volume over a weekend, I feel I have joined – alas, quite late – just my kind of party. This collection, in fact, is characterised by fiction which could presumably count as “horror” but whose terrors are more elusive than the mainstream fare.
The opening story – The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell by Brian Evenson – provides a perfect example of what one should expect. Hekla, the protagonist, unwillingly joins a spiritual retreat or workshop in a remote house outside the city. The initial pages suggest that this story will pan out into either a haunted house or a typical “slasher” scenario. What we get, however, is something much stranger and nightmarish. This is not the only story with a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere – another one is The Somnambulists by Simon Strantzas, featuring a hotel powered by dreams.
Conspicuous by their absence are the well-established monsters of the horror genre: there are no vampires, no werewolves and no malevolent clowns, although Dollface by Seán Padraic Birnie features what appears to be an evil doll. Ghosts do appear, but possibly not in the guise one would expect. Alison Littlewood, fresh from her supernatural/timeslip novel Mistletoe (my review here) contributes Hungry Ghosts, a tale set in contemporary Hanoi and inspired by the Vietnamese festival of the dead - a familiar premise is made stranger by the unfamiliar context. A Coastal Quest by Charles Wilkinson is a bittersweet story of a woman escaping an oppressive household, doubling as a tale of ghosts. In Camera Obscura by C.M. Muller, a city photographer shoots a derelict farmhouse haunted by a supernatural being. It’s an entity which borrows as much from Scandinavian folklore as from classic ghost stories, giving this piece a folk horror feel. The same atmosphere permeates Down to the Roots by Neil Williamson, about a high-flying businessman who returns to the small Scottish village of his childhood.
Previous volumes of Shadows and Tall Trees have won prizes and accolades. Peter Straub (no less) has described it as “a smart, soulful, illuminating investigation of the many forms and tactics available to those writers involved in one of our moment’s most interesting and necessary projects, that of opening up horror literature to every sort of formal interrogation”. This volume is, indeed, a cross-section of the contemporary wealth of innovative horror writing. Editor Michael Kelly’s judicious choices ensure that the anthology comprises a variety of subjects, as well as different styles and approaches. Some stories, for instance, set out to be original in form and structure. Tattletale by Carly Holmes has the punch of flash fiction – it’s over in a flurry of dark, violent metaphors. KL Pereira’s You, Girls Without Hands delivers its potent feminist message in six, very brief chapters. The Quiet Forms of Belonging by Kristi DeMeester adopts a style close to prose poetry, rich in metaphors and images which seem to be taken from dark fairy tales. Workday by Kurt Fawver is a Chine-Mieville-like critique of capitalist society, in which increasingly urgent anonymous warnings delivered to the employees of “Corivdan Incorporated” urging them not to attend the corporation’s holiday party because they are “in grave danger”, are countered by reassuring emails and memos issued by management. The piece has no characters, no dialogue and no narrative in the usual sense of the word, consisting solely of these sparring exchanges.
The contemporary feel of this anthology, however, is not based only on originality of form but also on the timeliness of the subjects. This is indeed proof that genre fiction is no mere escapism (although there would be nothing wrong with that) but can also be the means to address burning issues and concerns. Thus, the eco-Gothic The Sound of the Sea, Too Close by James Everington references climate change, global warming and the rise in sea levels; the darkly comic The Fascist has a Party by M. Rickert parodies a recognisable President, who remains unnamed in the text (and will remain unnamed in this review); Rebecca Campbell’s Child of Shower and Gleam portrays the suffering of an abusive relationship. One could also mention Lacunae by V.H. Leslie, whose musical subject makes it one of my favourite stories in the anthology. The young wife of a composer past his prime takes him back to a remote Scottish island. The landscape had purportedly provided the inspiration for his best-known work and the couple hope that his talents will be rekindled. We discover, however, that not only was his famous composition co-written but his (uncredited) first wife, but also that its haunting theme and unusual structure were wholly her creation. Classical music is passing through its own #metoo moment, with powerful figures unmasked as sexual predators and its ‘traditional’ white male canon increasingly put in question. “Lacunae” fits the mood perfectly. It chimes in with Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir's recent Oscar-acceptance speech and its tribute "to the girls, to the women, to the mothers, to the daughters who hear the music bubbling within...please speak up. We need to hear your voices"
Whilst one appreciates and admires the “timeliness” of these stories and their subjects, it would be wrong to overlook the intrinsic capacity of horror and the Gothic to address “timeless” fears. Pieces like Sleepwalking with Angels by Steve Rasnic Tem, about an old widower who is succumbing to dementia, or Steve Toase’s Green Grows the Grief which presents us with a woman whose sanity unravels following the death of her father, are a reminder that some terrors never change. Loss, pain, growing old, mortality – throughout the ages, these shadows have stalked our worldly existence. Stories might be a way to exorcise them.
Shadows and Tall Trees is a superb collection. It feels like taking a trip outside reality, only to come back and perceive it with brighter, sharper edges.
This baggage of associations makes Shadow and Tall Trees an ideal name for editor Michael Kelly’s anthology series of weird fiction, published by Canadian press Undertow Publications. The series is now in its eighth instalment and having devoured this latest volume over a weekend, I feel I have joined – alas, quite late – just my kind of party. This collection, in fact, is characterised by fiction which could presumably count as “horror” but whose terrors are more elusive than the mainstream fare.
The opening story – The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell by Brian Evenson – provides a perfect example of what one should expect. Hekla, the protagonist, unwillingly joins a spiritual retreat or workshop in a remote house outside the city. The initial pages suggest that this story will pan out into either a haunted house or a typical “slasher” scenario. What we get, however, is something much stranger and nightmarish. This is not the only story with a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere – another one is The Somnambulists by Simon Strantzas, featuring a hotel powered by dreams.
Conspicuous by their absence are the well-established monsters of the horror genre: there are no vampires, no werewolves and no malevolent clowns, although Dollface by Seán Padraic Birnie features what appears to be an evil doll. Ghosts do appear, but possibly not in the guise one would expect. Alison Littlewood, fresh from her supernatural/timeslip novel Mistletoe (my review here) contributes Hungry Ghosts, a tale set in contemporary Hanoi and inspired by the Vietnamese festival of the dead - a familiar premise is made stranger by the unfamiliar context. A Coastal Quest by Charles Wilkinson is a bittersweet story of a woman escaping an oppressive household, doubling as a tale of ghosts. In Camera Obscura by C.M. Muller, a city photographer shoots a derelict farmhouse haunted by a supernatural being. It’s an entity which borrows as much from Scandinavian folklore as from classic ghost stories, giving this piece a folk horror feel. The same atmosphere permeates Down to the Roots by Neil Williamson, about a high-flying businessman who returns to the small Scottish village of his childhood.
Previous volumes of Shadows and Tall Trees have won prizes and accolades. Peter Straub (no less) has described it as “a smart, soulful, illuminating investigation of the many forms and tactics available to those writers involved in one of our moment’s most interesting and necessary projects, that of opening up horror literature to every sort of formal interrogation”. This volume is, indeed, a cross-section of the contemporary wealth of innovative horror writing. Editor Michael Kelly’s judicious choices ensure that the anthology comprises a variety of subjects, as well as different styles and approaches. Some stories, for instance, set out to be original in form and structure. Tattletale by Carly Holmes has the punch of flash fiction – it’s over in a flurry of dark, violent metaphors. KL Pereira’s You, Girls Without Hands delivers its potent feminist message in six, very brief chapters. The Quiet Forms of Belonging by Kristi DeMeester adopts a style close to prose poetry, rich in metaphors and images which seem to be taken from dark fairy tales. Workday by Kurt Fawver is a Chine-Mieville-like critique of capitalist society, in which increasingly urgent anonymous warnings delivered to the employees of “Corivdan Incorporated” urging them not to attend the corporation’s holiday party because they are “in grave danger”, are countered by reassuring emails and memos issued by management. The piece has no characters, no dialogue and no narrative in the usual sense of the word, consisting solely of these sparring exchanges.
The contemporary feel of this anthology, however, is not based only on originality of form but also on the timeliness of the subjects. This is indeed proof that genre fiction is no mere escapism (although there would be nothing wrong with that) but can also be the means to address burning issues and concerns. Thus, the eco-Gothic The Sound of the Sea, Too Close by James Everington references climate change, global warming and the rise in sea levels; the darkly comic The Fascist has a Party by M. Rickert parodies a recognisable President, who remains unnamed in the text (and will remain unnamed in this review); Rebecca Campbell’s Child of Shower and Gleam portrays the suffering of an abusive relationship. One could also mention Lacunae by V.H. Leslie, whose musical subject makes it one of my favourite stories in the anthology. The young wife of a composer past his prime takes him back to a remote Scottish island. The landscape had purportedly provided the inspiration for his best-known work and the couple hope that his talents will be rekindled. We discover, however, that not only was his famous composition co-written but his (uncredited) first wife, but also that its haunting theme and unusual structure were wholly her creation. Classical music is passing through its own #metoo moment, with powerful figures unmasked as sexual predators and its ‘traditional’ white male canon increasingly put in question. “Lacunae” fits the mood perfectly. It chimes in with Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir's recent Oscar-acceptance speech and its tribute "to the girls, to the women, to the mothers, to the daughters who hear the music bubbling within...please speak up. We need to hear your voices"
Whilst one appreciates and admires the “timeliness” of these stories and their subjects, it would be wrong to overlook the intrinsic capacity of horror and the Gothic to address “timeless” fears. Pieces like Sleepwalking with Angels by Steve Rasnic Tem, about an old widower who is succumbing to dementia, or Steve Toase’s Green Grows the Grief which presents us with a woman whose sanity unravels following the death of her father, are a reminder that some terrors never change. Loss, pain, growing old, mortality – throughout the ages, these shadows have stalked our worldly existence. Stories might be a way to exorcise them.
Shadows and Tall Trees is a superb collection. It feels like taking a trip outside reality, only to come back and perceive it with brighter, sharper edges.
christinogle's review against another edition
5.0
A very nice group of stories! Some favorites were "The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell" by Brian Evenson, "Workday" by Kurt Fawver, "Child of Shower and Gleam"by Rebecca Campbell, "The Quiet Forms of Belonging" by Kristi DeMeester, "The Somnambulists" by Simon Strantzas, and "Down to the Roots" by Neil Williamson. I am looking foreward to reading the earlier volumes of Shadows & Tall Trees.
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