So, I was sat here drinking wine and trying my utmost to bang out some fiction and suddenly remembered the smell of a book. Then I recalled the smell of the resteraunt where I’d sat reading that book. Then I remembered the book itself.
It was good feel. The early aughts were a simpler time. When bookstores hadn’t started shutting down all around and random discovery was a lot more likely. This very nineties strain of weird fiction is like the lullaby of a rural Carolina sky in all its isolated grimness. Yes, it was such nights that found me curled up with some bit of reading I’d picked up here and there. It was a necessity to escape the cicada song and the mocking moon.
It was thrilling to wander among the stoic haunted halls of the Wyrd museum and other such places. Though I haven’t read the book since I was just barely in my teens and doubt it would have very much effect on me now; I’m profoundly glad for that sense of wonder. So glad that I felt inclined to share.
Call Me An Idiot Here
Support This Here
Or With PayPal
Support the Journal
Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.
Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz
Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!