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White Walls and Straitjackets by David Owain Hughes
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
What a rousing collection of short stories that aren’t as separate as they seem.
I’m not new to Mr. Hughes’ jarring way of telling a story. His obvious lust for gore, sex, and his characters ever-spewing obscenities has surprisingly endeared me to his way of storytelling.
He’s earned a lifelong fan in me and as long as his stories stay gory, bloody, and sexy as hell, I’ll be there.
-Will expand upon this later, just had to write something about this awesome book.
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Well I suppose this is where I expand upon it. Everything I said above still rings true a mere week after writing it, but I feel it bears repeating: Mr. Hughes can craft a sick fucking novel.
It sits in the squirmiest parts of your mind and body until (I imagine) you can’t take it anymore and have to stop reading. I assume. This didn’t happen to me. I, with some sort of immensely morbid fascination, couldn’t stop reading the damned thing.
It was beautiful, the plot points all not apparent until you’re halfway through, then a silent “holy shit,” leaves your throat and you have a much greater appreciation for how this man’s brilliant mind works. Again, I assume. That was just my interpretation of the beautifully crafted work I read.
And the cheeky bastard has the gall to put himself in it! I won’t spoil how or when but it definitely puts a huge grin on one’s face, as it’s tastefully done, nothing jarring at all, no look at me I’m the author mess, it sneaks up on you in a kind way, a gentle nudge.
Oh, and speaking of gentle nudges, there are characters seen in another novel of Mr. Hughes’ that made me go “are those the same people?” After correspondence with the author, I can confirm that they indeed were, and the particular novel I am mentioning will be out later with the press I work for, Burning Willow.
Look out for it.
You’ll come to love Mr. Hughes’ work just as much as I do.
With blood and love,
S.C. Parris
