Caleb Ross’ stories do not behoove summaries. Let’s just get that out of the way. Let’s also just say that they contain blood drinking, deformity, death, and disfigurement, to varying degrees. These stories swirl like nightmares: a populace of anti-protagonists so wounded that there is generally no hope for their redemption. The reader acts as sponge, absorbing their pain. Making sense of it. As the reader, you are the first man on the scene; as such, you are to perform the tasks the characters themselves are no longer capable of performing: observe, record, and interpret. Seek your own closure. And be careful to distance yourself from these people, because they’re collapsing stars, and you could be swallowed right along with them. Your job is only to do the above, and to pretend you dont share something universal with each and every one of these poor souls.

Oh, it’s not as dire a task as it sounds. There is true wonder here: Charactered Pieces is a glass menagerie of deformity, a collection of short stories that is utterly fearless in its willingness to spill blood, shock, and soothe. Unlike most horror fiction, you can’t step away and dismiss these stories with simple logic– they do not contain supernatural bogeymen, mad killers or fiends. These stories contain normal people crushed under the wheels of circumstance and the weight of guilt. The characters within are far beyond damaged– they are wrecked. Busted parents and screwed up kids; scarred, ruined, and weighed down with ten tons of remorse and pain wrapped in cancerous silence. Like individual flaws in the same junk diamond, they share some unspeakable pain in one way or another. But all this hurt isn’t dreamt up for the author’s detached amusement, or for the titilliation of some nihlistic reader– this is a bid for communion where it is needed most. In each story the characters’ struggles are the result of some long-incubated despair, intimate and undeniable as a deathbed rasp. Come close. Listen: that the main character in The Camel of Morocco— an architect tortured by guilt after the collapse of a mosque on which he performed renovations— could reach the course of action that he does with the reader’s suspension of disbelief intact is a small miracle, if miracle is the word. These characters cry for empathy. You will be tested on whether you can abide.

This isn’t shock for the sake of shock. This isn’t to get a rise out of you; this isn’t a museum of cruelty. There is never the sense that Ross is toying with you, manipulating your sympathies. On the contrary, like a synthesis of Raymond Carver’s ability to paint in 100 shades of grey and Chuck Palahniuk’s reckless abandon for the limits of taste, Charactered Pieces is an honest look at the darkness that humans both create and endure; a catharsis by way of misery, sweating out the toxins. Apparently even pain can be beautiful– what else could explain feeling even remotely upbeat, as I did, at the end of the eponymously-titled first story Charactered Pieces, witnessing the main character lovingly painting the semi-formed toenails of an unborn fetus? Yeah. Out of context it sounds over-the-top, but withinin the context of the story it’s an act that is as loving as it is surreal.

Fathers fail; buildings collapse; people visit unending pain on themselves and their loved ones. Love. The word sounds unreachable, like a star whose death we haven’t yet recorded but whose light is still visible. Refracted through Ross’ prose— at turns both brutal and poetic— it can yield understanding. Maybe even hope. Like a collection of photos of our absolute worst moments, Charactered Pieces works to dull the edge of suffering through exposure; toughening the spirit, leading us into and through the places we fear. Though maybe we shouldn’t leap to conclusions on that hope business: “The wind sounds like wind,” closes The Camel of Morocco. The implication is that our guilt, however crushing, is to be dealt with. We are perhaps on our own.

Caleb’s website: www.calebjross.com

Sheep and Wolves, Jeremy C. Shipp’s short story collection follow-up to his debut 2007 novel, Vacation, is not a quick read. Though only 160 pages, this collection demands an investment deeper than its length would suggest. Wearing the skin of the absurd while hiding the guts of a literary paranormal investigation, the collection defies casual reading and easy categorization. Sheep and Wolves must be approached carefully, chewed slowly, and swallowed cautiously.

The tales, rarely more than 10 pages in length individually, are challenging enough to traditional modes of storytelling that one must relearn the art of interpretation in order to fully appreciate them. Whether this is due to a protagonist’s drug-fueled mindset, or due to the simple idea that a story need not have a drug-fueled protagonist to be strange and unwieldy, Shipp’s stories refuse to be bound by accepted storytelling conventions.

One of the more jarring escapes from convention is the tendency for the stories of S&W to rarely establish themselves in a physical setting; asking instead that the reader make sense of context by judge of character interaction and observation. This idea isn’t new; minimalist authors have been doing it for years. However, by combining this mode with the other aspects of the bizarro genre (from BizarroCentral.com: “…often contains a certain cartoon logic that, when applied to the real world, creates an unstable universe where the bizarre becomes the norm and absurdities are made flesh”), Shipp offers an entertainingly unbalanced platform from which to leap and let his world do with you what it wants.

The story, “Baby Edward,” one of my favorites, for example, begins: There’s more than one way to kill a dream [pg. 30], and continues from there hovering between the realspace of a nondescript backyard and the headspace of our narrator. The magic of this “blurry storytelling,” whether in the aforementioned “Baby Edward,” the hypnopompic hallucinatory mind of the narrator of “Nightmare Man,” or any of the other stories, is that a character’s headspace is the realspace. Though the stories challenge the reader to discern reality from unreality, the reader is slowly taught that the purposeful blur is meant to show how unnecessary such distinctions really are.

Be warned; this collection will polarize audiences, splitting readers according to their willingness to trust in an untethered voice. Sheep and Wolves does not believe in beach reading or in hammocks and hot chocolate. It does not believe in love at first sight or in happy marriages. To be happy, Sheep and Wolves says, is to embrace the absurd. “Lies are cheaper than therapy” [pg. 69].

Welcome to the bizarro fiction movement; hail Jeremy C. Shipp.