City of Saints and Madmen, Jeff VanderMeer's latest short story collection, has been published. Jeff's collection is "set in the fantastical town of Ambergris, a complex landscape of stories, 'eyewitness' reports, 'faux histories,' and neo-Gothic imaginings" — basically, the quirky, lush, funny stories that he's best known for. We were classmates at the Clarion Writers' Workshop back in 1992, and he's always been a sharp writer — he won the World Fantasy Award for his novella The Transformation of Martin Lake back in 2000, and is a contender again for this fine volume.
In the first hour after death, the room is so still that every sound holds a terrible clarity, like the tap of a knife against glass. The soft pad of shoes as someone walks away and closes the door is profoundly solid–each short footstep weighted, distinct. The body lies against the floor, the sightless eyes staring down into the wood as if some answer has been buried in the grain. The back of the head is mottled by the shadows of the trees that sway outside the open window. The trickle of red from the scalp that winds its way down the cheek, to puddle next to the clenched hand, is as harmless now, leached of threat, as if it were colored water. The man's features have become slack, his mouth parted slightly, his expression surprised. The wrinkles on his forehead form ridges of superfluous worry. His trumpet lies a few feet away… From outside the window, the coolness of the day brings the green-gold scent of lilacs and crawling vines. The rustle of leaves. The deepening of light. A hint of blue through the trees. After a time, a mouse, fur ragged and one eye milky white, sidles across the floor, sits on its haunches in front of the body, and sniffs the air. The mouse circles the man. It explores the hidden pockets of the man's gray suit, trembles atop the shoes, nibbles at the laces, sticks its nose into a pant cuff.
(Thanks, Jeff!)
