DRUNK ON THE MOON NOW IN PRINT
The Drunk On the Moon stories:
Drunk On The Moon/ Before The Moon Falls – Paul D Brazill (UK/Poland)
The Darke Affair -Allan Leverone (USA)
It’s A Curse -K A Laity (USA/Ireland)
Insatiable – B R Stateham (USA)
Fear The Night- Julia Madeleine (Canada)
Getting High On Daisy -Richard Godwin (UK)
Silver Tears – John Donald Carlucci (USA)
Blood & Alcohol – Frank Duffy (UK/Poland)
Back To Nature – Jason Michel (UK/France)
A Fire in the Blood -Katherine Tomlinson (USA)
When a full moon fills the night sky, P I Roman Dalton becomes a werewolf and prowls the dark streets of the city battling creatures of evil
Can someone please explain why Paul D. Brazill is not on every best seller list? Seriously folks I need to know the answer. This short story of ex cop, now an alcoholic PI, who also happens to be a werewolf, is probably the best short story I have read in recent memory.
I kid you not folks the writing, plot and execution of this story is damned near perfect. Practically every sentence has been honed into a thing of beauty. In lesser hands this could easily have descended into an overworked bloated and self indulgent short story. Instead Paul has created a Noir – horror masterpiece, that really is jaw dropping in quality. Every page has moments, where you actually stop reading, just so you can take in the amazing literary talent dislayed here.
This story is so good I don’t feel that I have a strong enough grip on the English language to do it the justice it deserves.
Paul has created a fully realised world full of Noir staples as smoky gin joints, manipulative broads and a dependable bar man. This is the sort of story that makes me want to invest in a trench coat and trilby and set myself up as a PI.
Here are a couple of my favourite passages,
It’s happened to most people at one time or another. Maybe after a birthday party or a fight with the wife.You wake up throbbing with gloom and aching with guilt. Memories of the previous night trample all over your thoughts with dirty feet. Nausea curdles away inside you. Your mouth’s like the bottom of a bird cage and Keith Moon is playing a drum solo in your head.
Days bled into weeks, which hemorrhaged into months, until the winter crept up and smothered the whisky coloured autumn days with darkness. Night after night, Duffy’s flickering neon sign dragged me back like an umbilical cord. Or maybe a noose.
BUY THIS BOOK IT IS A MASTER CLASS IN THE EXECUTION OF THE SHORT STORY FORMAT (and yes I am shouting)