Burden Kansas, A Review

Burden Kansas, by Alan Ryker

Burden Kansas is a novella, not a novel.  For those who don’t know the difference, this is important.  Some would say the defining feature of a novella is the amount of words it contains – usually between 15 and 40 thousand words.  Which makes it a short novel or a long short story, if you reckon by word count.  However, the defining element in a novella is that it is a concise work, that is punchy and to the point.  It is a style of story writing that is both condensed and sleek.  Like quicklime.

Burden Kansas fits this description very well.  The story of a Kansas cattle rancher who is dealing with some heavy life burdens as his cattle are being mysteriously slaughtered by some wild animal that feeds and bleeds, yet appears to have opposable thumbs.  The vampiric nature of the predator is dealt with quickly and cleanly, but the narrative really opens up in the characters and back stories of the small town that’s being hunted.  Keith, the main protagonist, is a rancher who’s had a hard life, and has complications that are haunting him far more ruthlessly than what is feeding off the cattle.  His story, and the vampire story, run head into each other, and he has to battle one out against the other.  The vampires are revenants, happy to feed off cattle in the dark and hide under the soil when the sun is out.  Into this animalistic lifestyle, an accident creates a vampire with intelligence.  Keith’s life gets even more complicated.

It’s a bloody rip roaring tale that gallops past quickly.  An easy accessible read, with enough characterisation to keep it interesting and realistic, and enough intelligence to lift it out of the stereotypes.  The writing is as clean and smooth as the copy, and the storytelling cinematic in its structure.  This could be a film or a two-part television drama with ease.  For my tastes, it was slightly too clean, and I’ve have liked a little more detail, but that is entirely personal: there is nothing missing in terms of the structure or the style.  At just over 30 000 words, it sketches out a whole community and deals with the narrative effectively, entirely as a novella should.  I did like the transition elements of the vampire storyline, between animalistic and then onto intelligence, and the shorthand helps it all out here: you just go with the flow. 

My only beef is a tiny one, in that you can’t have a huge herd of dairy cattle going without milking, and not have the entire county know about it within hours.  For a narrative set in cow country, there were precious few cows.  And if that’s the only quibble you have, then you know you are in for a good read.  Highly recommended if you are looking for a light bite of horror, with a side dish of vampire.   Excellent value at 71 pence! I look forward to more from the author.

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The Second Review!

I read Changeling with two simultaneous brains. My right brain, emotional, reactive, horrified and full of dread. I identified with Joanne as a woman -- I felt the fear every woman feels on a cellular level of being taken, raped, dominated, and abused. I sympathized with her reactions to physical and psychological torture. I agonized with Joanne, I understood her struggle to survive; her decision whether or not to want to stay alive. When she finally escapes from Dreyfuss’ clutches I found myself shouting RUN TO THE HOSPITAL YOU DUMB BITCH! She doesn’t but....well, I won’t give it away.

But I am also a mental health professional, so I couldn’t help but also view the characters and the story with my left brain: clinical, rational, logical. It is also for this reason -- my profession -- that I don’t generally read horror fiction. I see enough true-life horror in my work that I am not entertained by it anymore. That being said, Changeling was like a scary roller-coaster ride, and I did enjoy it. Dreyfuss is a vampire, a mythical beast, far enough removed from reality that I was able to be carried along by the story and by Joanne’s transformation.

Interview With Me

I'd just like to say thank you to David H Burton for doing a really good interview with me - great questions - this past week.

If you have the time, please click the link to thank him for his time:  http://davidhburton.com/?p=5525

David writes a wide range of dark fantasy/horror books, and many of you might like to peruse his lists.  I'll try and set up an interview with him, soon.  Seems obvious to share out information on on horror writers out there, now I think on!  :-)

Paperback Cover

After a lot of tweaking, this is the final final version.  Honest.  :-)  Thank you for all your help.

Click to enlarge.

Chapter 3, Changeling

Next week, on Sunday April 10th, I'll both put up Chapter 4 as the last full chapter sample.. and launch.  Eeek!

*shaking quivering terror*

Chapter Three

The first thing she was truly aware of was a cramp, low in her back.  She wasn’t sure exactly when she became aware of it, how long she’d been listening to her body groan, but slowly, carefully, the awareness that this was real, her back was hurting, she was asleep, or had been, settled in her mind.  It was dark, too dark; that wasn’t helping.  Where was it, that it was this dark?  Not her own bedroom for sure.  Not her lumpy bed and rickety windowsill, traffic noises seeping through with the streetlights.  The bed beneath her was straight, even with her weight on it.  The dark around her, absolute.  She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on waking up.  Her mouth was dry and filthy, caked with gunge.  As she struggled to push her body awake, to sit up, make sense of the confusion, she flitted her tongue round and round, desperately seeking moisture.  The pain from her back was sharp and fresh as she pulled forward, making her wince.  What on earth had happened that her back hurt so?  The question sat in her mind, trying to make some sense to her.  She fumbled around, feeling the soft bed that surrounded her.  How big could a bed be?  She leaned to the side, reaching for an unseen edge, trying to find an end to this smothering softness.  Her head spun, dizziness almost overwhelming her.  A nausea rose within her, she gagged.  She wasn’t going to throw up, she wasn’t going to throw up.  She certainly wasn’t going to throw up until she had worked out where she was.  She dropped back on the bed, closing her eyes.  She’d moved too fast, the dizziness got worse not better.  She groaned, which turned out to be a worse move than flopping back on the bed.  Her throat felt awful, like she’d swallowed crushed glass.  Hot and dry and raw all at the same time.  As she lay there, trying to control her panic, her breathing, her dry mouth, her head began a wicked beating.  Thrum, thrum, thrum.  If this was a hangover, she didn’t want to think about what she’d been drinking.  Her back had eased slightly on lying back, but when she tried to move upwards, it screamed protest once more.  Fear started to edge out panic: what had she been doing that had hurt her back?  Whatever the answer was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about it, not yet. 

Gritting her teeth she forced herself to sit up, sitting straight up on the bed.  The wave of nausea hit again, as did the dizziness.  She rode it out, clutching a sheet to her face, concentrating on not throwing up, not passing out and not going back down into the bed.  The thrumming threatened to split her head open, but she kept on in there.  The feeling of sickness passed, as did the dizziness.  Her back stayed raw and sharp, but got no worse.  As the thrumming finally started to ease off, she became aware of a harsh rasping breath in the room beside her: laboured, dangerous.  She almost screamed, clamping her hand over her own mouth, the noise stopped.  Fear froze down her spine, blocking out all thoughts of her back, her pain, her headache.  She clutched herself tightly, knees automatically raised to tuck under her chin.  The rasping breath started again.  She scrunched her eyes tight shut, tears squeezing out of the edges, and once more clamped her hand over her mouth, anything to make herself disappear.  The noise stopped again.  She held her breath, better to hear the darkness: nothing.  The moment stretched and broke.  She let the trapped air in her lungs out, the movement forcing more pain from her throat, her back, her head.  The rasping started again.  A whimper fled from her throat and was out into the darkness before she could help it.  She again held her breath, this time her hands flying up to cover her head, her chin tucking down, seeking protection from her knees.  The rasping stopped.  As she lay there, tight and curled, awaiting whatever monster was in the room with her, she thought this through.  An idea occurred to her.  Lifting her head, she gasped in some air, once more releasing the bottled up feeling in her lungs.  The rasping started once more.  She held her breath.  The rasping stopped.  She breathed out.  The rasping started up again.  Relief flooded through her, limbs turning liquid; she crumpled once more back onto the bed.  It was her!  The noise she’d heard, that awful rasping breath, it was her own.  The darkness, the silence in the room, it had fooled her.