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I haven't read a novel in perhaps three months. Some time ago, anyone who told me that might be the case one day, I'd have thought insane. I've been reading novels ever since it was possible and still actually have the first prose work I ever read on my own--Crockett Johnson's Harold and the Purple Crayon (New York: Harper and Row, 1955--found it in between E. Nesbit's The Story of the Amulet and T.H. White's The Once and Future King, a much more fitting pair of neighbors than, say, Thomas Disch and Laurie Notaro). Even during grad school (a time in which it's allegedly impossible to read stuff unrelated to one's thesis, a theory I and others constantly disproved), I read novels (and, more scandalously, works of history that had little to do with my area of study). It's not that I've gone off fiction, very much the contrary. I just decided one day that I'd read enough without having written a good deal of my own stuff. It was time to stop amassing "influences" and "inspirations" and time to let them alone to fuck up my subconscious and hopefully produce something worth reading. Eventually, the new process led to a couple of my stories actually being published, in The First BHF Book of Horror Stories.

The Second BHF Book of Horror Stories (Northwich, UK: BHF Books, 2007) is now in existence. It's much bigger than the first, with perhaps twice as many stories, many of which I've read before on the BHF online forum. Webmaster and editor Chris Wood gives another impassioned and witty introduction, much of its self-deprecating content devoted to restoring the (outward) normality of people who enjoy horror fiction. I don't enjoy all that much of the modern stuff, to be honest, but I do enjoy writing it (or what looks a hell of a lot like it, anyway). Fortunately, the work here is hardly stereotypical (whatever that might mean), with familiar horror tropes and themes being stretched and reworked to (in most cases) produce something fresh and engaging. Accentuating the coherent feel of the total work is a series of art pieces--drawings and photos--done once more by Paul Mudie, Paula Fay and Lawrence Bailey (honors going to Paul's undead woman--and frog*--and Paula's simple yet engrossing "Portrait of a Young Woman," accompanying the story of the same name). As for the stories, they're all at least good, many excellent, and a few tremendous. My favorites (shit, this is hard):

Paul Newman's "In The Pipeline": A terrific evocation of the nastier parts of childhood, as well as those beloved neighborhood landmarks, open sewer pipes (there was one in mine).

Gareth Hopkins' "Romero and Juliette": A funny view of the world of the undead; some of the names are rather cutesy and referential (must the main character be named George Romero?) but it's an unusually brisk, funny piece that still manages to bring the terror. It also features a zombie frog, which can only be (and is) awesome.

Matt Finucane's "It Is Written": Possibly the most original piece in the anthology, and a brilliant "be-careful-what-you-wish-for" fable of technological "advancement."

James Stanger's "Jacob Raffles": A rough, weirdly poetic piece about the horror of a post-apocalyptic Britain. Several members have treated the idea with excellent results, but James' stands apart in a way; it's hardly a typical story in plot or voice, and has an almost Biblical force to it.

Christopher Wood's "You Can't Sing, You Can't Dance, You Look Awful. You'll Go A Long Way": Reality show parodies have been a staple of British sci-fi/horror at least since Nigel Kneale's brilliant, gruelingly depressing TV play "The Year of the Sex Olympics" (1968--a good thirty years before the whole grisly, exploitative panoply became ubiquitous on our TV screens), but Chris' knack for creating hilariously unappealing main characters (Terry's awful--basically all our worst impulses made flesh) works great with the idea, and the ending's a beaut.

In toto--Neil Christopher and Franklin Marsh: Neil's probably my favorite writer on the forum; his glorious novella "Test of Faith" marked a definite high point. Here we have the quasi-novella "Cerberus Rising," an exciting, politically savvy werewolf yarn set in Ceaucescu's Romania, and "When Hell Freezes Over," a moody (literal) chiller freighted with guilt and well-observed local details. Franklin's stuff runs the gamut from eerie and terrifying--"The Morris Men"--to funnier pieces like "A (Something) In Wardour Street" (which I've just realized might have influenced something I'm presently writing) to brilliant blends of the two like "The Darklands Hall Legacy."

My favorite, though, was Sam Dawson's "Children of the Summer's End." From the euphonious title to the alternately chilling and exhilarating ending, this one really stuck with me for a while afterward. Perhaps it was the depiction of the need to fit in, the pressure to be cool, that hit a chord, as I suspect it might with anyone who's ever felt alone or apart, and the fear of what might happen if the loneliness ever became permanent. Excellent stuff; I'd never read any of Dawson's work, but I hope we see more of it in future.

*To say nothing of his gorgeous werewolf cover.