With a Voice that is Often Still Confused But is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer Read online

  Uncharacteristically Kind Words for J.R.Hamantaschen

  As you are already reading (or at least considering) this collection, why not bludgeon you with praise for my first collection, You Shall Never Know Security?

  “The collection is aptly named - each story inspires a sickening feeling of danger … a twisted, uneasy, satisfying book.”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “A cross between Lovecraft and Chuck Palahniuk, this book of short stories is as memorable as it is terrifying. The Palahniuk comparison doesn’t end with a name that’s impossible to spell – we haven’t been this horrified by a collection of short stories since Chuck’s own Haunted… You Shall Never Know Security is a wonderful collection of short stories from a dark and original genre voice. That title – it’s a promise.”

  –Starbust Magazine

  “The term dark fiction has become a tad diluted by the onslaught of vampire, zombie and pseudo-horror novels that currently dot the literary landscape. However, in J.R. Hamantaschen’s You Shall Never Know Security, a collection of 13 short stories, dark fiction is back to what it was meant to be: a bloodcurdling jump into the gloomiest and most sinister corners of the human psyche.

  With an elegant and eloquent prose that brings to mind the work of Lovecraft, Hamantaschen repeatedly pulls away the thin cover or normalcy that’s usually thrown over our daily lives and unabashedly shows readers what lies beneath. Regret, despair, fear, envy and guilt are all here, and the stories in which they appear are the kind that tend to stick with readers after the reading is over.”

  –HP Lovecraft E-Zine

  “You Shall Never Know Security is aptly titled. Containing 13 tales, all are beautifully written, most are engrossing and there’s a vein of loss running throughout. Overall, the book is depressing but still compelling as hell because of Hamantaschen’s skill with words. As supernatural as the stories can get, there’s still a semblance of ‘real life’ found in each as sometimes there are just no happy endings. Sometimes the real world just sucks.”

  –HorrorTalk

  “Here is some boastful praise about this fellow author. My real goal is for you to check out my book. Why else do you think I listed the books I’ve written?”

  –Sycophantic other Author, Author of Some Other Fiction in the Same Genre

  “The language, in places, is evocative, almost elegiac … The stories are so varied in type and emphasis that it is difficult to describe them in a single line or two . . . in all of the above, the author delivers powerful, ugly images, using a battery of verbal pyrotechnics that make the stories demand to be read carefully. Buried in the razzle-dazzle language are clues to the intended meaning. If horror is your poison of choice, these will definitely fill the bill.”

  –Innsmouth Free Press

  “J.R. Hamantaschen’s stories tap into the cosmic hopelessness of life. His stories are horrific and terrifying, but really shake one’s idea of self and your place in the universe.”

  –HP Lovecraft Literary Podcast

  “The thirteen stories in You Shall Never Know Security are…strange. A character in one story uses the word surrealistic to describe a situation; it is equally appropriate as a description of the entire collection. Another character in another story borrows the oft-overused (although here appropriate) Lovecraftian word eldritch; and again, it resonates through every story—unearthly, weird, eerie.”

  –HellNotes

  “If you like your fiction unique and on the darker side, if you wonder what Robert Aickman would sound like had he written in the Now instead of the Then…your answer is here.”

  –ShockTotem

  “He has a remarkable grasp of exactly how instinctively predatory the human beast is and the lengths some are apt to go to conceal this fact beneath layers of comforting veneers. He is also a natural story teller, willing to dally at the realizations, the internal struggles to come to grips with the unthinkable, and the often less than satisfying fare that is ultimately one’s lot in life rather than the visceral. He also has a macabre sense of humor that creeps into the telling now and again leaving the reader wondering if he has just heard a joke, or if the joke is inevitably on us and from time to time we need to appreciate that fact.”

  –Paul Bates, RedRoom

  “J.R. Hamantaschen’s anthology, ‘You Shall Never Know Security,’ kicks open the doors of the traditional horror fiction genre and takes the reader to a far darker place. Never relying on gimmicks or gore, Hamantaschen handles some deep topics in these stories, while keeping you thoroughly horrified from beginning to end. This is fiction for readers that like to think, that like to be challenged, that like to squirm.”

  –Drabblecast

  “J.R. Hamantaschen won’t be underground for long”

  –HorrorWorld (Note from J.R.: I certainly proved them wrong!)

  “Odd, alarming, and almost poetic in nature, J.R Hamantaschen’s ‘You Shall Never Know Security’ is an anthology that will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page.”

  –OneTitle Magazine

  “I recently finished this collection and found it quite good. He is extremely strong with creating character, and his fiction is authentically weird. The prose seemed very modern to me, which is something I sometimes don’t enjoy, being an old soul, but I was captivated by these tales. There are places when the descriptions are beautifully poetic. An excellent book.”

  –Wilum Pugmire, an author whom I respect and whose opinion I value.

  “Bark Bark Bark!” [licks own balls] [falls asleep]

  –Will the Pug

  “This anthology of horror and weirdness goes off the charts in the first story. I mean that in a good way.”

  –Revolution ScienceFiction

  “J.R.’s fiction is raw, startling, and dark. The best examples of his work — stories such as “Jordan, When Are You Going to Settle Down, Get Married and Have Us Some Children?” and ”Endemic” — make readers squirm with discomfort, wondering how far the boundaries can be pushed before they break. J.R.’s work isn’t comfortable fiction, but it’s as often as not thought-provoking fiction wrapped around a grimly philosophical edge.”

  –The Harrow

  “J.R. Hamantaschen’s ‘You Shall Never Know Security’ is one of the best dark fiction collections ever published. It contains fascinating, disturbing and beautifully written stories that range all the way from dark fantasy to horror.”

  –Rising Shadow Magazine

  “If you have three pages or so of critical praise, it validates as you as a human being.”

  –I wish

  Introduction (Of Sorts)

  So after four years and just as many suicide attempts (I can’t do anything right!), I’ve returned with another collection of my dark fiction stories. For the potential reader who may not be familiar with me, this is my second collection. You Shall Never Know Security, my first collection, was a (minor) critical and (relative) commercial success, so here we are. If you enjoy this one, hope you check out that one as well.

  In my first collection, I included a publication history of all the stories contained therein, thinking that was the thing to do. Nowadays, I’m not so sure if anyone cares about that sort of stuff. I’ll instead just provide a hat tip to some venues where my work has been published or produced, such as the Drabblecast, Pseudopod, Nossa Morte, 19 Nocturne Boulevard, The Harrow, and Revolution Science Fiction. I
appreciate them (and the other magazines that have published my work, some now long-departed) for their support.

  This being the sophomore effort, I felt the pressure from some quarters to have another author-friend write some hagiographic piece on my behalf, but who wants that? I’ve always found it disappointing when a collection exclaims “With an Introduction by [Somewhat More Well Known Author]” and then it’s just a tossed-off page or two of nonsense. (Introductions to “graphic novels,” I’m looking at you!)

  So I’ll make this brief (he says after writing several superfluous paragraphs). Far be it from me to suggest how these stories are read, but I’d suggest you read them in order, as some of the stories are related.

  If you enjoy these stories in anyway, feel free to email me at [email protected]. If you happen to visit the New York City metropolitan area and want to grab coffee, feel free to shoot me an email. Assuming you are not an asshole, of course.

  A substantially different version of “The Gulf of Responsibility” was previously published with a preposterously long (but fitting) alternative title. A slightly different version of “Big With The Past, Pregnant with the Future” was published alongside it.

  A substantially different version of “Oh Abel, Oh Absalom” was previously published in the 2013 anthology For When the Veil Drops. I mention that anthology specifically because it was a good one, put out by the good folks at West Pigeon Press, and has some other good stories in it.

  Other stories herein have been published in various magazines or produced as podcasts or performance pieces. All copyrights are retained by me.

  I sometimes stroll through online forums and find it amusing that people request information on where to find bootleg digital copies of You Shall Never Know Security to avoid the onerous burden of purchasing a collection that’s priced well below that of a Frappuccino, but I hold no hard feelings. In fact, I understand and am sympathetic. If you happen to be one of these people, and you legitimately cannot afford to purchase any of my work but wish to read them, I’d be more than happy to send you a complimentary copy.

  Writing is not how I support myself financially, which explains the general delay in my output. I’m sometimes asked if I ever consider writing full-time, to which I’ve amassed considerable pithy responses. (One such response: “I have, but I’ve gotten used to eating daily.”) Until the market improves dramatically for depressing, despairing weird fiction that appears exclusively in small press magazines or podcasts and is published by an author with a cookie-inspired nom de plume (google “hamantaschen”), then part-time my writing shall remain.

  Sorry for the wait.

  Best,

  J.R. Hamantaschen

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Vernichtungsschmerz

  A Related Corollary

  The Gulf of Responsibility

  Big with the Past, Pregnant with the Future

  Soon Enough This Will Essentially Be a True Story

  I’m A Good Person, I Mean Well and I Deserve Better

  Cthulhu, Zombies, Ninjas and Robots!; or, a Special Snowflake in an Endless Scorching Universe

  Oh Abel, Oh Absalom

  “It’s Not Feelings of Anxiety; It’s One, Constant Feeling: Anxiety”

  This is a work of fiction, and each of the characters, entities, locations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  WITH A VOICE THAT IS OFTEN STILL CONFUSED BUT IS BECOMING EVER LOUDER AND CLEARER

  Copyright © 2015 by J.R. Hamantaschen

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any printed, electronic, or other form without the prior written permission of the author.

  Dedications

  None.

  Vernichtungsschmerz

  Julia never remembered her dreams. At most, she’d come back with discrete images that couldn’t be cobbled together into a narrative whole, images that would rebound within her memory banks for, at most, several hours, then dissipate to wherever faded memories went. Then, at some point, her attempt to recall them would give way to speculation and conjecture.

  She was in a dream now, she knew. She was gently making her way down an azure blue river. Her aunt and her friend Venice were both with her, which was weird. Why not her mother? She found herself questioning the premise of this dream. Why Venice? Was Venice her best friend?

  Already the fabric of the dream was tenuous, as she saw herself from the third-person perspective, alongside her aunt and Venice, noting to herself the incongruent angles of the river and the unrealistic color of the raft that carried them. When you became aware of a dream, that’s when it ends.

  She felt the bobbing of gently-moving water beneath her and looked down at the orangish wood. She was impressed with the granular level of detail in the wood, in the construction of the raft. She knew nothing about handiwork, but she could tell this raft was professionally constructed. She was impressed with herself, that she even had a frame of reference within her to recognize a well-crafted raft.

  She let her fingers drift in the water. She distinctly felt them submerge, and instinctively tightened her bladder. Dreams of water meant you were going to pee the bed. She rubbed her fingers in the stream, convinced any minute she’d wake up with a warm, damp bed.

  Her aunt and Venice mouthed words, but what they said was a mystery.

  What? she thought, and wasn’t sure if that thought made its way into the dream.

  Her aunt rocked back and forth. She wore black, which was typical of her.

  She didn’t see Venice below the waist. It was definitely Venice, tall gangly Venice, large equine mouth and facial features, curly black hair. The rendering was impressive — she made out the impressions of Venice’s pronounced teeth, and wondered if she had internalized Venice’s insecure impression of herself.

  Venice spoke softly and indistinctly.

  Julia turned her head to see a large, humanoid creature stand up beside her. It was pale green, long, lean and well-proportioned. It was gilled and scaled. Five hook-shaped claws on each hand, blubbery webbing connecting each claw to one another. Its face was indistinct, like everything else, except its mouth seemed too far back, sprung back almost, but claws forward, as if its claws were the antennae it used to navigate the world.

  “Julia. I’m here to help you. Come with me, I’m here to help you.”

  The impression of shaking her head.

  “Come with me Julia, come with me.” The webbing of its claws split and new, scythe-like claws emerged continuously, a conveyer belt of sharp angles and scaly blubber.

  She shook her head, whether in the dream or in real-life, she didn’t know.

  Venice and her aunt were gone.

  “I do not know what your mind is making me look like to you. I apologize if I appear frightening to you.”

  Its breath — or perhaps just its presence — was sulfurous, redolent of damp disease.

  Her dream jumped-cut to a memory of when she opened what she thought was an empty drawer at her aunt’s house and found the corpse of a mouse in a sticky trap, its bottom still plump but covered in its own musty droppings, its upper half feeble and emaciated, a hint of pink color for guts. That smell when she first opened the drawer and realized what she was looking at — that’s what this reminded her of.

  She was back to her dream-reality. Still on a moving raft, but with just isolated details, nothing that provided a larger impression of her environment, as if her brain didn’t have the processing power to create a coherent background.

  When she took her focus off something, it disappeared.

&
nbsp; “I don’t look like anything, I don’t smell like anything, I don’t sound like anything.”

  That’s odd; she thought mildly, she liked the sound of its voice. Masculine, but in a non-threatening way.

  “Everything you perceive, that’s just your brain creating a projection that it wants you to believe is true. But it’s not true. I don’t look like what you are seeing.”

  The creature reached its arms out, palms up, claws up, long as rakes. So long that they didn’t make anatomical sense, how a creature that lives in the water could possibly have claws the size of rakes…

  “I am here to help you. I will not make you do anything. I will give you a choice, as much as a choice is possible in your reality. You did not choose any of your urges, preferences or limitations. You did not even choose to be in this sleep state. I am here to tell you that I offer you a painless exit out of existence.”

  The fetid smell had become overpowering; there was the heavy heat of unwashed body, bacterial build-up. The reeking scene jaundiced all the creature’s words, smothered all else, the tinge of genuine sympathy she detected now gone, curdled beneath her base revulsion.

  “Of course, your brain wants you to survive and reproduce. That is why you feel pain when you get hurt, to let you know that there is trouble, to get you to avoid those situations so you can survive and reproduce.

  “Your brain, your nerves, your senses, they don’t want you to listen, for I do bring Death. I bring you the escape from pain, from fear. Your brain will let you feel the pain of disease, of cancer, of decay.

  “But I am here to tell you something else. Something your own body, your own mind, will never reveal to you. In your reality, there is no such thing as a painless death. When you die, your brain reacts to get you out of whatever situation is causing your death. To your brain, it is like your finger is in boiling water — it sends the signal to tell you to remove it. But now imagine your entire body is in boiling water, and there is no hope of escape. That’s what death is. It’s the feeling of your own system in pain, cannibalizing itself. All that pain, you feel it. Time is subjective. The pain lasts forever. It swallows everything you ever did and every memory you ever had. All life ends in a tide of pain. And as your mind controls your perception of time, it’s a never-ending tide.”