Unspeakable Horror 3: Dark Rainbow Rising
Vince A. Liaguno, ed.
Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9781957133461
Crystal Lake, June 21, 2023, 334 pgs

Crystal Lake Publishing and Vince A. Liaguno offer a strong, identity-focused set of stories in this anthology, inspired in part by the editor’s observations regarding “the cause-and-effect relationship between gains and backlash within the LGBTQIA community,” such as “more than 300 bills introduced by state legislators across the country that target LGBTQ+ rights.” Liaguno, who also co-edited Other Terrors: An Inclusive Anthology with Rena Mason (William Morrow, July 2022), describes the theme as “this idea of a rainbow darkening at its edges even as it continues to rise from the horizon.” This is indeed a fantastic description of many of the pieces. The introduction also promises a table of contents which is “diverse and distinct” and includes “A few straight allies… with their own thematic interpretations from the outside, looking in.” And I would agree, to a point. Twenty-six original selections are on offer, many of them quite compelling. But since diversity is promised, it’s worth noting perhaps that the diversity of perspectives could be richer—at least, in my opinion. Diversity can look like many things; what people mean by “diversity,” how it’s defined, the focus of the word, can vary greatly. Browsing through stories and bios it’s clear that authors from a range of certain kinds of lived experiences have been given space to speak, but the diversity across lines of ethnicity and race, to me, is not as dynamic as I would have liked. That piece of criticism said, it’s still a good book, perhaps even an important one. I’ll discuss a few of the entries and leave the rest for your discovery.

Chad Helder’s “Tattoo Artist” is an emotionally striking poem which evokes aspects of queer and specifically nonbinary history and culture. Helder utilizes both interesting turns of phrase and effective descriptions to create a combination of intellectual and visceral responses in the reader. This feels like a complete journey, a fully lived story in poetry form, which is no small feat. The ending is unexpected and startling in its own way, and interrogates, in the span of a few lines, the way cultural and technological shifts can mean both convenience as well as specific kinds of loss, resulting in isolation.

“Lavenders” by Yah Yah Scholfield engages the reader immediately with a complexity of internal conflict centered on racial and sexual identity, via a man who isn’t too happy about who he is. Scholfield paints the main character with careful and interesting prose, playing with language to wonderful effect. The journey here is an introspective one, even as the our protagonist moves around the town, but it is one that many queer folks will find relatable, and better yet, it’s told in Scholfield’s elegant style. As the night unfolds, some of the darker suspicions the reader will likely have from the beginning will congeal, taking clearer form. The underlying question that will still drive the read—that eager curiosity that the author will have brought out in you—is all about where Scholfield will take you. In some ways the broader strokes of the story are familiar, but Scholfield enhances the familiar with careful nuance and subtext, layered social observations, not to mention a struggle with the self that many folks of intersectional identity will find painfully relatable. All delivered in the form of beautiful storytelling.

“Strange Enchanted Boys” by Craig Laurance Gidney begins as a contemplation on human nature and time—especially the way time erodes what is—as seen from the outside. Curious to experience a different way of being, the observing entity passes into our world, and into the “rhythm of time.” As humans find the observer, the narrative becomes an astute contemplation on the shifting nature of perception, accompanied by vivid imagery. Until someone sees the observer for what it is, and then the contemplation shifts focus to communication and connection. Humans being humans, things can’t stay peaceful for long. After connection, the observer has to deal with the tides of new emotions, as well as the violence that intolerance often brings. Ultimately the observer is faced with the conundrum of remaining an observer or abandoning the relative peace of not being too involved. Gidney brings grace and the fantastic to real-life terrors, to circumstances and events that are all too common.

A.P. Thayer’s “Un Lamento de Flores” is perhaps a well-constructed comeuppance story, as well as an origin story, set against a backdrop of toxic male culture. There are elements which overtly speak to the theme, but I found the subtler touches to be fairly intoxicating. When a man shows up at a young wife’s door to conduct business with her husband, he brings an unexpected visitor: his niece Alejandra. The niece is alluring, beautiful, and Thayer almost poetically captures the moments of her entry into the wife’s courtyard, along with said wife’s subsequent nervous attraction. Similar in function to poetic metaphor, the flowers in the courtyard punctuate the tides of their attraction, their relationship. Ostensibly, the niece is meant to help with the housework while the wife is pregnant. This gives the two women opportunities to experience the slow burn romance. Meanwhile, the women in the village have all kinds of bad things to say about Alejandra. As the romance develops, the wife wonders at the possibility of some kind of supernatural influence, while still enjoying the experience of the attraction—which effectively adds layers of tension, drama, and potential subtext to the read. But things start to escalate, and with this escalation, even more tension builds: sometimes there’s a fine line between seductive romance and mysterious, perhaps even suspicious surrender. Thayer plays the tension subtly and expertly. When Alejandra’s uncle plans a marriage for her, it forces the women to take action. Where it all leads is unexpected, brutal, and raw.

Mathew L. Reyes gives us “Such A Lovely Place.” This one starts with an intriguing line and then digs right in to suburban stress, invoking tensions specific to being new to the neighborhood, and all those subtle discomforts—not to mention the sense of vulnerability—that come with feeling or actually being judged. This delicious tension is juxtaposed with a scene which exemplifies the comfort of companionship and trust, of friendship and, importantly, being around folks who don’t just “accept” you but who actually feel like family. Even among friends, however, the pressures from outside a social group can seep in and cause trouble. This is especially true of marginalized groups, as individuals often have conflicting opinions about how to integrate with larger society, or if integration should even be a goal. Reyes does important work bringing this conversation to story, as it tends to be a topic which is less often explored, despite that it’s a major part of the experiences of so many marginalized people in so many ways. Reyes also uses story to explore the uncomfortable “kindness” of neighbors, the half-measures of superficial acceptance, and the pain of issues around survival and personhood being reduced to dismissive terms like “political;” smiles setting you up for a gut punch—those kinds of encounters which many people from marginalized backgrounds will find all too relatable. As Reyes plays out these scenes, he never loses sight of the underlying horror narrative, letting that particular flavor of unease surface again and again, reminding the reader that something is even more “off” about the suburbanites than usual. Things escalate wonderfully, and the suburbanites discover that they aren’t the only ones with secrets.

“Daughters of Eve” by Holly Lyn Walrath opens with mesmerizing and mysterious scenes involving a phenomenon tied somehow to sexuality and perhaps even intimate connection. The story also brings in cultural, often life-threatening dangers that are related to identity and sexuality. There is a lovely complexity to the way these dangers are initially layered in, suggesting an array of effects, including the way people are forced or taught to see and limit themselves; simultaneously, the danger is just-palpable, instilling in the reader a sense of uneasiness that lurks right under the skin. The writing itself is great, a straightforward and expertly composed style, and the storytelling is seriously spellbinding. The piece overall feels like a frank, personal, and kind of beautiful exploration of self-discovery, with a speculative element that brings even more nuance and metaphor into the conversation.

There are a number of contributors lining the table of contents that horror readers will recognize, such as award-winning authors Eric LaRocca, Hailey Piper, Sara Tantlinger, Paul Tremblay, and more, as well as a few newer writers you may want to look up after reading their work here. All told, Liaguno has pulled together a worthy group of creatives who know how to tell a story. It’s a good book. Queer or not, give it a read, you’ll certainly be entertained and engaged.