Obviously, as an author of fantasy fiction, I love fairy tales. The Beast Is An Animal is such a story; think Brothers’ Grimm. Immersing in the story was like a cool swim on a hot day. The fictional setting felt like seventeenth century New England with small changes in the spelling of names and places to suggest a landscape that was different; forest became fforest and Alice became Alys, the story’s heroine.
The book touts the story of a girl coming of age while learning to deal with good and evil, beauty and ugliness. One cannot exist without the other, but she finds it all exists, within both her own character and her immediate environment.
I didn’t work hard to study the thematic treatments Peternelle van Arsdale infused in the work, but one especially relevant statement for our times rose to the surface, at least for me. Specifically, Beast demonstrates how extremism gives birth to evil, which continues to feed on itself until everything around it becomes tainted and ripe for destruction. In reflection, I’m not quite certain what role the Beast plays in the narrative as Alys must deal with creatures who morphed from children to something sub-human. The Beast itself did not appear to have much in the way of malevolence, and in fact, it seemed to be at risk right along with the humans of Alys’ world.
If there was one disappointment, it came at the end. Alys serves more as a spectator to the defeat of evil than an active defender of good, and the heroine who saves the world for the people she loves.
Overall, van Arsdale is a competent storyteller and should be on a short-list of authors to look for again.
One of the earliest forms of trauma for most young teens has to deal with the subject of coping with death. Reaper, by Kyra Leigh, follows the story of Rosie Wolfe, which starts with her waking up in the strangest looking hospital-like room. It’s a prelude to the discovery that she no longer inhabits the land of the living. Leigh puts a completely different spin on her examination of death by having her hero dealing with it post-mortem. Not only does the trauma of her father’s death from cancer still haunt her, she now faces some very unsavory tasks in order to win her place in paradise in order to reunite with him. There is a very clear Heaven Can Wait aspect to the story as the after-life has a fully functioning set of rules and procedures governed by the Grim Reaper and her administrative staff.
By alternating flashbacks of Rosie’s life with her current quest, we come to understand how tenuous the bonds of life are and how capricious death can be. They seem both cruel and uncalled for. Leigh is a competent writer who quite deftly tugs, and sometimes wrenches, at your heartstrings.
There was a level of disappointment in that Reaper never delivers a solid resolution except the conclusion that death, in and of itself, leaves loved ones floundering in its wake and that there is never a one-size-fits-all way to deal with it.
This exquisite novel, by Meg Haston, needs to be a best seller. The treat is how she probes the fringes of relationships and then dives in deep, exploring and tasting the facets and flavors of complex motivations, false starts and stops, hurt and joy, and finally resolution.
Good writing is supposed to make you feel. For me, The End Of Our Story drilled through forty-five years of ‘trying to forget’ and exposed a raw nerve that throbbed as painfully as when I was seventeen. And, that’s not a bad thing; it’s a tribute to Haston’s talent. The story centers on two teens: Bridge (short for Bridget) and Wils, a pair who have known each other since childhood. Through a time-staggered series of chapters, we experience their path, and witness the significance of people’s actions, how they can alter an otherwise beautiful trajectory. While it sits on the shelves in the teen section of a bookstore, adults should not feel shy about jumping in with both feet if for no other reason than to accept the reminder of the their role in teen life.
If there is any detraction, it might be the repetitive observations that Bridge makes while dealing with the narrative’s issues. Having said that, I still could not put the book down, staying up quite late absorbing the storyline. While it is certainly a stand-alone novel, I am hoping that Haston discovers a compelling way to continue Bridge and Wils’ story.
Wake Up and Smell The Coffee, is a collection of monologues from actor and playwright Eric Bogosian that stream together into a one man show that examines a variety of topics from family to religion to the frustration of societal inequity and the devastation that comes with the realization there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a play that makes you think.
In the interest of transparency, I must admit two things: I have some acting experience, and I know Frank Zagottis, the consummate performer in this adaptation. First, from an acting perspective, to tackle an eighty to ninety minute monologue is insane. In a normal play, an actor is part of an ensemble, sharing dialogue and blocking. In “Wake Up” it’s Frank and only Frank. Second, I know Frank can sing – I’ve seen him, he teaches film, he’s an all-around good guy. What I didn’t know was that he can act. My yardstick for measuring a performance is when an actor is subsumed by a role. When you watch Tom Hanks play Forest Gump, you’re not thinking “oh, that’s Tom Hanks playing Forest Gump”. When you see Stanley Tucci preen as Caesar Flickerman in Hunger Games, you’re witnessing a wholly new entity in the form of a character. Watching “Wake Up and Smell The Coffee”, I lost Frank. I forgot I knew Frank. He disappeared in plain sight.
This one-man performance is a must-see and begs the question, what will he do next and how long will we have to wait for it.