Zusatztext Big talent gives off thermonuclear vibes. I can feel them . . . this is the voice we're going to be hearing for a long time. Harlan Ellison Every page of Brite's work stresses the beautiful and heartbreaking strangeness of the world. Fangoria Informationen zum Autor Poppy Z. Brite Klappentext Big talent gives off thermonuclear vibes. I can feel them . . . this is the voice we're going to be hearing for a long time.Harlan Ellison In an old car rocking down a North Carolina highway with the radio on so loud you can't hear the music. . . Behind a dusty Georgia carny show. . . In a mausoleum in Baton Rouge, or in an alley in Calcutta. . . Here wanderers come to rest, the lost and lonely press their bodies up against each other, the heat rises, flesh yields, bones are bared, blood spills. This is the landscape of today's most brilliant young horror writer, Poppy Z. Brite. Now, in a collection that sings like cutting edge rock 'n' roll and shows the deft touch of a master storyteller, Poppy Z. Brite weaves her unique spell of the sensual, the frightening, and the forbidden. . . Every page of Brite's work stresses the beautiful and heartbreaking strangeness of the world. Fangoria Angels I. Ghost Can'tcha see the time is here for us to find Rivers, mountains, nothin' can be far behind Can'tcha see You gotta find out this one for yourself Can'tcha see Throaty Carolina voice full of gravel and gold, growling deep, rising to a fluttering crescendo that skimmed over the terrible guitar playing. Coat-hanger wire across the strings, angels smashing their harps! Steve glanced in the rear view mirror and said, How in hell did you ever manage to get it that far out of tune? It's not out of tune. Listen. Ghost twisted his fingers around the neck of Steve's guitar and strummed what Steve supposed was meant to be a chord. It rang through the car, vibrating the glass and metal, raising dust from the seats until Steve rolled his window down to let it out and Ghost began to sing again, happily, gloriously massacring the way-back FM hit with the wind whipping long translucent strands of hair across his eyes. Amy whatcha gonna do Ameeeeee I kin stay with you Forty miles later, past gas stations with killer bears caged in the back, past checkerboard fields of wheat and tobacco, past telephone poles that stood like stark crucifixes against the sky, the T-bird belched forth masses of angry steam, coughed, and stopped. Steve busied himself under the hood for a while, cussing and hurting his hands on the hot metal while Ghost strummed and sang to him from the back seat. When Ghost said Heads up and tossed him a Bud from their little cooler, Steve ran his sore hands through the fringe of dark hair that hung over his forehead and eyes. Strands of his hair stood out in loops and angles, stiff with engine grease. It is beyond my powers, Steve said. It is cursed, old Ghost, it is fuckin' cursed. We need a phone. Ghost got out of the car. His pale eyes turned skyward and lit upon strands of telephone wires trailing away over the rises and misty falls of the road. He stood swaying gently for a moment, his hands trembling at his sides, his mind travelling the wires. Then he shook himself, turned in a circle, and said, See that church over there? There's a path back behind it and we go through the cemetery and the woods, and there's a big house up on a rise. They trailed through the cemetery, casting long shadows over the softly rotting gray stones and the bright patches of grass and earth and sunlight, still sipping from cans that dripped foam and amber sparkles caught by the sun. Steve wiped his hands on a red bandanna. Ghost, still humming his song, caught the tops of the tall weeds between his finge...

Autorentext

Poppy Z. Brite

Leseprobe
Angels
 
I. Ghost
 
“Can’tcha see the time is here for us to find … Rivers, mountains, nothin’ can be far behind … Can’tcha see … You gotta find out this one for yourself … Can’tcha see …”
 
Throaty Carolina voice full of gravel and gold, growling deep, rising to a fluttering crescendo that skimmed over the terrible guitar playing. Coat-hanger wire across the strings, angels smashing their harps! Steve glanced in the rear view mirror and said, “How in hell did you ever manage to get it that far out of tune?”
 
“It’s not out of tune. Listen.” Ghost twisted his fingers around the neck of Steve’s guitar and strummed what Steve supposed was meant to be a chord. It rang through the car, vibrating the glass and metal, raising dust from the seats until Steve rolled his window down to let it out and Ghost began to sing again, happily, gloriously massacring the way-back FM hit with the wind whipping long translucent strands of hair across his eyes.
 
“Amy … whatcha gonna do … Ameeeeee … I kin stay with you …”
 
Forty miles later, past gas stations with killer bears caged in the back, past checkerboard fields of wheat and tobacco, past telephone poles that stood like stark crucifixes against the sky, the T-bird belched forth masses of angry steam, coughed, and stopped.
 
Steve busied himself under the hood for a while, cussing and hurting his hands on the hot metal while Ghost strummed and sang to him from the back seat. When Ghost said “Heads up” and tossed him a Bud from their little cooler, Steve ran his sore hands through the fringe of dark hair that hung over his forehead and eyes. Strands of his hair stood out in loops and angles, stiff with engine grease. “It is beyond my powers,” Steve said. “It is cursed, old Ghost, it is fuckin’ cursed. We need a phone.”
 
Ghost got out of the car. His pale eyes turned skyward and lit upon strands of telephone wires trailing away over the rises and misty falls of the road. He stood swaying gently for a moment, his hands trembling at his sides, his mind travelling the wires. Then he shook himself, turned in a circle, and said, “See that church over there? There’s a path back behind it and we go through the cemetery and the woods, and there’s a big house up on a rise.
 
They trailed through the cemetery, casting long shadows over the softly rotting gray stones and the bright patches of grass and earth and sunlight, still sipping from cans that dripped foam and amber sparkles caught by the sun. Steve wiped his hands on a red bandanna. Ghost, still humming his song, caught the tops of the tall weeds between his fingers and let them slip away again. Burrs clung to the cuffs of Steve’s jeans and Ghost’s gray wash pants, and Steve began to whistle.
 
The twins sat on the front lawn in the cool mud of their wishing well, tracking the travellers’ progress for ten minutes before the swish of leaf-laden branches and the crunch of pine needles could be heard from the overgrown path in the woods. When the travellers’ shadows wavered around the bend in the instant before they would come into view of the lawn, the twins each pulled up a handful of grass and tiny blue starflowers, flung them into the wishing well, and darted under the front porch. Two pairs of yellowy-green eyes peered out; two heads leaned together, whispering about the cracked leather of Steve’s cowboy boots and the purple Magic Marker drawings on Ghost’s white sneakers.
 
Ghost stopped to look at a muddy spot on the lawn, a shallow hole carefully outlined by rocks. Rough gray stones bordered the red clay gash in the scrubby grass; lines of smaller white pebbles radiated out, half-embedded like teeth in the patchy lawn, a sunburst in stone. Gently, Ghost traced a line of pebbles with the to…