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Review: “A Nail in the Heart” by Ian Daffern

A NAIL IN THE HEART

by Ian Daffern. Art by Noel Tuazon, Shari Chankhamma, and Frank Fiornetino
28pg
Available at iandaffern.com

Ian Daffern’s work as a comic writer is a favourite here at WRP, and I was excited to pick up A Nail in the Heart, his own ‘short story collection’ of sorts, if only to see how well his penchant for punchy dialogue and pace translates to serious subject matter. Even though the stories here left me wanting more I was not disappointed–by his own admission in the back of A Nail in the Heart, this is Daffern’s first collection. “Not enough tracks yet for an EP–think of it as a single,” and as a single, this three-comic collection packs a modest punch.

Each story is penned by Daffern and illustrated by a different artist, with three vastly differing styles. The first, “Bring Me the Head of Osama Bin Ladin,” [sic] illustrated in scratchy notebook-noir by Noel Tuazon, sets the tone for the collection as heavy and unrelenting. Centered around a CIA agent tasked with, well, literally performing the titular task, Daffern is showing his true colours with narration that seems to dance around direct points while actually delivering heaps of backstory and plot. Tuazon’s loose style limits us from getting to know the character’s emotions enough, and weakens the critical moral-choice-moment for the lead character, but the story itself is twisted and unrelenting.

Centered around a photographer and his producer trying to capture an elusive bird, “Bird of Paradise” follows with much cleaner line work from Shari Chankhamma and a more abstract, though equally dismal look at human connectedness. The only weakness of this collection starts to show here as Daffern’s ideas are too big for the 8-page format. As with the first story there’s a lot of characterization I feel I’m missing out on given the originality of the concept and the depth of the dialogue. It’s not a bad story, I just want more of it. Plus, the payoff on this one is completely unpredictable and, without spoiling anything, is the kind of dark humor I’ve come to expect from the writer.

Concluding the collection is “Eyes in the Sky,” which is a kind of middle ground between the heavily narrated opener and the more sparsely characterized middle story. Centering around a couple lost in the boonies, (featuring excellent shade work by artist Frank Fiornetino), “Eyes in the Sky” offers Daffern at his best, writing dialogue for characters that both realistically annoy and compel the reader. A pitch-perfect back and forth between a condo couple lost in the forest concludes with a predictable amount of narrative insanity for Daffern, but made me feel for them as their story… reached its conclusion.

If the single is this good, I’d definitely buy the EP, but I’d recommend Daffern kick the ball a little farther and shoot for a Long Play on his next effort. He’s proven that he can carve characters out of marble, but I want more pages than A Nail in the Heart can give me. There is something to be said for brevity, as each story is as final, hard-hitting, staggering and painful as I would imagine a nail in the heart would be, but I can’t be faulted for complaining that each of these stories could have been their own 30 page masterpiece. Regardless, with brevity as his nail gun Daffern shoots to kill with these three stunners that push ‘darkly funny’ to the edge of ‘uncomfortable tears,’ and if he misses when he shoots its not for lack of trying.

Book Review: Amphetamine Heart, by Liz Worth.

Amphetamine Heart
By Liz Worth
58 Pages.
http://www.guernicaeditions.com/title.php?id=9781550713435

I don’t know why I feel compelled to look for a narrative in Amphetamine Heart. That isn’t ordinarily my first instinct when I pick a poetry collection. Parhaps because this latest book has so much in common with another book of Worth’s, which I reviewed here, that did have a strong narrative current. Perhaps because the tone of the writing is so uniformly cold, wet and uncomfortable. It seems to have a consistency which begs me to derive a narrative from it. Whatever the reason, I’ve been through this book a half dozen times looking for a single, clear, unified story line. I can’t find it, but I keep looking.

In a way it’s distracting. I can’t approach the poems individually without feeling that I’m missing some critical element of context. But I also can’t approach the work as a whole, because I don’t know whether there is truly a wholeness to approach. The positive thing about this mystery, though, is that it gives Amphetamine Heart a sense of mystery. My interactions with it are active, investigatory, and dynamic. Any good poem will offer a little something extra to the serious and careful reader. Worth, though, seems to be the rare poet who can actually extort, from the casual reader, a little bit of extra:

Attention to Detail

It was the night you said that there’s no such thing
as an accidental overdose.
I was convulsing with downtown sickness,
slavering over your triple lunacy.
The erratic timing of my disoriented middle ear
became audible with the calluses of your hand
             spreading
suicide inhibitors.

Six poems in, nearing the end of the first cycle, and the subject matter is relatable, literal, and dramatic. The “I” suffers a drug overdose. Certainly something one could imagine the “I” of all of these poems experiencing. The next piece should be about a hospital room, or death, or recovery, but instead:

Beginner’s Guide

The demolition of her atonement
has you salivating;
it could be a viral reaction, or your glands
flexing practiced analysis.

. . .

A bead of salt slides down your sternum,
reaches her chin.
Her lips bend to accommodate the moisture,
bend away from resistance.
Beneath you, she divides in two, opens wide.

Similar tone, language, and detached perspective. It definitely could be part of the same story. But is the “you,” of this poem the same person as the “you” of the previous? And who is “she?” Is she a new character, or simply the “I” re-branded?

“Beginner’s Guide,” like much of this collection, is erotic, vivid and amusing, if not all together pleasant. Throughout Amphetamine Heart, lurid and arousing nouns like “moisture,” and “breath,” are paired with the troublesome adjectives like ”hoarse,” and “viral.” It’s a simple technique, but it’s contextually appropriate and carefully applied. The effect is visceral and unsettling. It adds a guttural sensation, which makes the experience feel very complete. Amphetamine Heart engages the reader physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Frankly, I always feel a little bit sick when I read Worth’s poetry. Given that her bio proclaims, the “poems are linked by discomfort and decay. . . urgency and self harm,” I hope she will take this as a compliment.

by Michael Scott

* all quotations from Amphetamine Heart by Liz Worth.

The Sunday Paper: “Blood Come” by Ryan Adam Murray. Part 7 of 7.

“The Chef will be here at seven,” I don’t really know what I’m saying. I haven’t accepted that I am even considering this idea yet. But what else can I do? I was more than willing to stand tall, do the right thing, and take a tongue lashing, a demotion, or possibly lose my job over a mistake like missing an important meat order. Manslaughter is another story. “I’ll call Jack and Nick. You get the body under the sink.”

Might as well get him over the drains. We shouldn’t cut him up in the prep sink. It seems wrong.

“Dennis? What the fuck?” Jack’s sleep-fogged voice on my cellphone. “What do you want?”

“No questions,” I say to him. There’s a grunt on the other end of the line. He knows from the sound of my voice that this is serious. “Come in. Right now. Bring a hacksaw, a hatchet, and a few bottles of bleach.”

“We don’t have bleach in the kitchen anymore?” he complains.

“The amount we’ll need to use would arouse suspicion,” that should pique his interest. “Get your ass in here. Now. And call Nick, convince him to come.” I’m not about to waste time trying to talk that idiot into anything. Jack will know what to say.

Shockingly, Nick arrives first. “Jack’s picking up some stuff,” he yawns, wandering around the kitchen a little. “What’s goin’ on anyway? Is there coffee? I could use a coffee.”

I gesture to the corpse underneath the sink.

Nick stares at it for a long time.

“Fuck the coffee,” he heads into the dining room, toward the bar. “I’m taking a bottle of bourbon right now. And if anyone says anything you fuckin’ well better cover for me.”

It’s a fair deal.

By the time Jack shows up, Nick is already a little drunk and weepy.

“We were just talkin’ last night,” he sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “He was standin’ right there,” he points, “when I asked him about the- the- potthe potat- oooooooh fuck…”

“What the hell,” Jack is totally bewildered, “is wrong with him?”

Then he sees Ted.

For a moment, Jack is quiet.

“Hacksaw, hatchet, bleach,” he turns to me and raise an eyebrow. “What are we doing here exactly?”

“I fucked up the meat order,” I say, stiffly. “I fell asleep. Ted came in and found out. I dunno…”

Nick’s eyes are wide with horror.

Jack looks stunned, but calm.

“It was an accident,” I finish, lamely. “The floor was wet. I shoved him and he slipped.”

“Oh my God,” says Nick.

“So we’ve got to get rid of the body?” Jack seems to cough. He will tell me later that he was trying not to laugh.

“Well,” I have not been looking forward to explaining this aspect of the plan. “Not exactly. Like I said, I fucked up the meat order…”

Nick’s jaw hangs, slackly, from his skull. I am worried for a moment. I look at Jack. Jack’s eyes are shining like twin stars.

“This,” he declares, voice cracking with emotion. “Is the most awesome day of my entire fucking life,” he tosses me the hatchet and grabs the hacksaw.

Long story short?

We tell the Chef that Ted has called in sick. He lets me prepare the meat for his special. Bandula is in heaven. Jack can’t stop grinning. Nick is a little freaked out, but everyone else is going along with it, so he does too. I’ve barely slept, but inspiration struck and I hit a home run.

Remember when I said that no reviewer worth their salt would waste time on that place? It turned out I was wrong. The reason the Chef wanted a special meat order was that he had received a tip that someone from a national newspaper, which shall remain nameless, is coming in tonight.

The reviewer is blown away. With that glowing write up, I begin to establish my reputation as a heavy-hitter in the culinary world. When Ted misses work again the next day, I cover his shift. After the third day, he’s fired.

We hear all kinds of stories. Peter thinks that he was killed over a drug debt. Amanda heard that he left his wife and went to Mexico. Juan has it, from Tom at the Centurion, that Ted had been arrested for arson. Ruggario suspects that he got an offered a position at that kitchen his friend owned in New York, the one he was always talking about, and took it right away. The Chef privately informs me that Ted just went on a bender and was too ashamed to show his face. We don’t contribute to the rumor and speculation. If anybody were paying attention, that would seem very strange. Luckily for us, Bandula was right. Beyond idle curiosity about the day supervisor’s fate, nobody really cares.

“For all his talk,” the Chef says with an air of condemnation, “he never really contributed anything to this restaurant, or to this kitchen, or to anybody else, as far as I can tell.”

I playfully consider mentioning the career-launching review of our innovative new special, which appeared in that national newspaper, but don’t say anything.

When I take over as Chef, I keep my team with me. I have to. Who else can I trust? When I start a company, –producing a line of steak spices and marinating sauces, complete with an online course and my own cookbook — they are my primary shareholders. When I finally get over my distaste for the idea, say to hell with it, and take a show on the Food Network, they are all on the production team. It’s not just that I don’t want them to go to the cops. I like having them around.

With their help, I learned something about myself. I looked at the choice before me and decided that, whether it was the right thing to do or not, there was no way I was bending over for the burning cock of failure.

There was one thing I never told Jack, Nick, or Bandula, because none of them would try the special that I came up with. To them, we were putting one over on the customers; serving human waste disguised as cuisine. I didn’t see it like that. I wanted to be honest about one thing, at least. I wanted the food to be good. I had to know. So I tried it.

Sometimes you take a step, and it seems like a little step at the time, but once you take it you realize you can never, ever step back. On my first day, the Chef asked me a question. He was gauging me. I didn’t realize at the time exactly what he was trying to figure out, but I’ve lived a little and I know a few things that I didn’t back then. The Chef asked me, if I were stranded in the wilderness due to a plane crash, how long it would be before I would eat another human being. I answered without hesitation because I assumed I had understood the question, but I hadn’t. I thought the question was about survival. I know better now. If somebody asked me that question today, they wouldn’t get the same answer.

By Ryan Adam Murray

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday. For other stories check out the Sunday Paper archive.

To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper:

e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com.