The Convulsion Factory

THE CONVULSION FACTORY

by Brian Hodge

THE CONVULSION FACTORY copyright © 2011 by Brian Hodge. Originally published 1996 by Silver Salamander Press.

Also From Brian Hodge & Crossroad Press

Novels:

Prototype

For Doli, once more,

for brightening the landscapes

of both town and country;

“Tell me what dreams may come…”

All progressions from a higher to a lower order

are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue

of nameless rage.

— Cormac McCarthy

Blood Meridian, or The Evening Redness in the West

Introduction: From Out Of The Angry Ruins

by Philip Nutman

Okay. Sit down and listen.

No poetical introductory paragraphs waxing lyrical about what you’re about to read, just a simple statement:

The book you hold in your hands is the Real Deal.

If you’ve been searching for a collection of tales of dread to make your head spin, The Convulsion Factory is it.

What you hold in your hands, oh Lucky Reader, is the doorway to a universe I can only describe as “Hodgian.” Be prepared to enter a space where your worst suspicions about the world we live in, especially the Inner Cities, will be confirmed.

And then some.

You won’t want to live here, but I’m sure, once you complete your first vacation, you’ll want to come back, just like I know I will in the years to come.

This is one of those rare books that the moment you turn the last page, you’ll be deeply disappointed the experience is over. But The Convulsion Factory will, I’m sure, take pride of place on your shelf of favorite volumes, and it will always be there, waiting for you to plunge back into its dark, disturbing pages.

In short, I haven’t enjoyed a story collection so much since Clive Barker kept me up all night when I first got my hands on The Books of Blood,over ten years ago.

Yes, high praise indeed.

And sincere praise.

You see, I’m a very picky reader. Not a literary snob, but I’ve spent most of my life learning to be a storyteller, and I know one when I read one.

And Brian Hodge is a writer’s writer. No quarter given, none asked for. The man is a storyteller with a capital “S.”

There’s no greater pleasure than discovering a book which seduces you, and as you slip between those narrative sheets and start to indulge your passionate desires…

Well, then you discover your new literary lover could teach the legendary Linda Lovelace a thing or two … and you are lost, my friend.

And you keep wanting more…

Okay, okay, this metaphor’s getting out of hand.

Let’s put it this way: writing, for me, is a sexual act.

On those days when the words flow and you, The Writer, discover things about yourself you didn’t know or couldn’t admit to, the art of placing words on a page, of weaving a story out of thin air, becomes transcendental. Just like the best sex.

And reading a novel or collection which inspires those same feelings is a revelation.

At a time when major publishing houses have decided horror is dead, and wannabee writers swimming in the cesspool of the small presses think they are the next King, Koontz, or Barker, when most of them are simply talentless morons who don’t know the difference between a split infinitive and a slice of toast, and 99% of what I read in the “genre” proves unimaginative, derivative shit, a collection like this one serves as a beacon in the darkness.

To be honest, I hardly read anything labeled “horror” anymore. The market imploded not because of public disinterest, but due to greedy publishers strip-mining a field which was already polluted by too many bad writers. I’ve had my fill of killer plants, demonic clowns, psychopaths, cereal killers (sic), and books with evil children on the covers. These days, if I want to experience that delicious frisson which accompanies a book not afraid to explore the darkness, I turn to James Lee Burke (In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead, Dixie City Jam), or Andrew Vachss, or James Ellroy — especially Ellroy. For some reason I haven’t quite managed to figure out, the best “horror” fiction is being written by mystery writers these days.

So when a collection like this one comes along — one that wears its dark stripes with grim glee — and turns out to exceed my expectations in spades, I’m ready to swing from the rafters crying, “it’s alive! it’s alive!”

Whatever label publishers want to put on my own fiction, and whatever genre I work in, I am always going to be walking the darkest backroads of the human heart. Exploring the darkness so I can define the light. And every day I sit down to write I try to do so with honesty, commitment, and conviction. Sometimes, the truths we uncover, like scuttling insects which squirm away from the light when we lift the rock of denial, are ugly and deeply disturbing. But we must be honest, Lucky Reader, for without honesty — the painful process of staring into the