BOOK TITLE: So…I Met a Vampire
AUTHOR: Paul McAvoy
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Creature Horror
GRADE: Fail
A young lady named Jessie James started off by going on a school field trip and ended up in the spirit world after dying in a drowning accident. And now in order to get a second chance at life, she must extract a vampire’s blood and bring it to the grim reaper within a limited time frame. Once the time limit is over, if she has not completed her task, she will be stuck in the spiritual realm forever. With the help of vampire expert Charles Devon, it appears as though a return to the mortal realm is at hand. But even with all the expertise in the world, this won’t be an easy task for someone as young and naïve as Jessie.
On the surface, this race-against-time plot seems like it could work in just about any scenario. We like the feeling of adrenaline rushes, especially when combined with supernatural elements. But it’s hard to be excited about the plot when the awkward writing style gets in the way of what would have otherwise been an enjoyable story. Unrealistic dialogue, obvious statements, a robotic narrator, and excessively short sentences are the best ways to describe the overall writing style Mr. McAvoy has employed with this novel. I know this book is geared toward a younger audience and younger readers aren’t as nitpicky as adults. But I can’t help but feel they too would be uncomfortable with the way this book is written.
The name of the main character also needs some analysis: Jessie James. The last time we heard about someone with this name, it was to describe a dangerous outlaw from wild west narratives. Ever since then, we’ve heard about other characters and celebrities with that name as well. We’ve heard about Sandra Bullock’s ex-boyfriend being named Jesse James as well as a female country singer with that name too. Hell, there was a WWE wrestler in the 1990’s named “Road Dogg” Jesse James. The name has been used so many times that it’s been beaten to death. The main protagonist of this story is just one more club to the dead horse’s body. Plus, it feels too obvious to name somebody that.
One more gripe about this story and then I’ll be finished with this review. The characters in this story seem too accepting towards supernatural elements. What’s that? A vampire? Meh. A ghost? Please. The grim reaper? Oh, that’s cool. These normally dangerous and imposing figures are just brushed off like nobody cares. In a dystopian society, this would be believable. But this just seems like an everyday modern community. Easily giving into supernatural phenomenon sounds too convenient, as if the author was trying to bypass the problem of having a protagonist whom nobody believes.
When Mr. McAvoy reads this review, I don’t want him to feel badly about what he’s produced. I want him to learn things and develop. That is my ultimate goal as a reviewer: to praise the author when necessary and hold him or her accountable when it matters most. This book may receive a failing grade (two stars) from little old me, but I assure you this is not Paul McAvoy’s last dance. The race-against-time plot is one that has a lot of truth to it. If it was better executed, then the complaints would be minimal. I hope Mr. McAvoy does learn something from this experience and I hope his next project will give him a chance to rise from the ashes like the phoenix he was meant to be.
Showing posts with label Grim Reaper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grim Reaper. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Blood Brawl, Chapter 2
Horace, the host at the Dragon Wings Orc Bar, wasn’t giving into any racial stereotypes of being an aggressive brute. On the contrary, he felt weak after the previous night’s events, which were fresher in his mind than a gushing slash wound. The interior of the bar had been reduced to ashes by that…thing. There was hardly any furniture left and the few tables and chairs that survived the assault were covered in blood and ashes. The counter was among the survivors and looked no better than the rest of the furniture.
The distraught bartender stood at the counter absentmindedly running a dirty dish rag along the insides of the same mug for ten whole minutes. With his only customers turned to worm food, it didn’t matter to the public what his state of mind was at the time. His traumatized brain was about to be flooded with cold numbness when he saw a figure standing in the doorway in a black trench coat and a hood wielding a scythe. Horace dropped to the ground and cowered in fear thinking he really was dead after all.
Horace’s heart thumped in his chest and his body had gone cold with dripping sweat. Not another trauma, damn it! And then the orcish voice said, “It’s alright, Horace, it’s me, Ivan. The bartender slowly stood up and saw that the voice indeed belonged to Ivan Blackstone, an orc warrior who for some reason loved to dress up like the grim reaper and carry a scythe to boot. Ivan casually said, “Yeah, I know, weapons aren’t allowed.” before depositing his blade on the ground.
The bartender was both relieved and argumentative at the same time when he continued wiping his mug and said, “Listen, I don’t need a lecture about what happened last night. I’m not in the goddamn mood for another scare. So if you’re not going to order anything to drink, I suggest you take your soapbox somewhere else.”
Ivan slammed his palms on the counter (which spooked Horace into a little jump) and drummed his fingers while giving the barkeep a despising glare. “What did you think was going to happen when you allowed those two to fight each other? Does anybody take kindly to having their head shaved after getting their ass kicked? Do I also need to remind you that Gargoth Trencher, the one who lost that ‘wrestling’ match, was not just this ‘death angel’ everyone’s talking about; he was my best friend.”
“If you consider that monster to be your friend, then you’ve got some fucked up social skills, kid.”
“Anybody who runs a wrestling league from their bar doesn’t have the right to criticize other people’s social skills. Besides, all this death angel chatter is news to me as well. Gargoth didn’t look anything like that when I tried to talk him out of coming here. No warning signs at all. An arrogant prick? Maybe. Hardheaded? Absolutely. Death angel? Never would have guessed it in a million years.”
Still wiping down the same mug, Horace said, “So you think there’s some hocus pocus bullshit going on here? Hell, I’d probably learn some magic too if someone was bold enough to shave my head. That death angel gig can be pretty nice after losing a wrestling match.”
Ivan grabbed Horace by his shirt and pulled him closer for an even more intense stare down. “If you’re suggesting that Gargoth did this on purpose, then you’ve got more problems on your hands than a messed up bar. You’ve got a pissed off best friend to deal with!”
Horace’s initial fear was replaced with screaming anger when he said, “Best friend?! You call that monster your best friend?! You’re actually making excuses for someone who’s beyond redemption?! I always knew you were loyal to your friends, Ivan, but this is downright evil! Take a look around you, buddy! Look at all those burned corpses! Look them in the eyes and tell them your little theory about how Gargoth Trencher is an innocent man! I’m sure if they were alive today, they’d completely understand!”
The trench coat-wearing orc found himself unable to argue with that point and let go of Horace’s shirt. The bartender went right back to cleaning his glass when Ivan finally pointed it out to him: “You realize you’ve been wiping that same glass since I got here, right? Do you even know where the hell you are right now?”
The frustrated host threw the glass on the ground and stomped on it several times, “Of course I know where I am. I’m in hell! And there’s no way out! Come to think of it, you’re in hell too, my friend! It’ll only get worse when your so-called best friend lays those fiery eyes on you and turns you to shit with just one stare!”
“Trust me, Horace, I’m ready to scour the earth for Gargoth. This isn’t just about friendship. This is about getting the answers that I deserve. Maybe your dead patrons won’t like my innocence theory very much, but they probably would like some answers, at least their families would.”
Horace made a flat tire noise and said, “Okay, so you think you can find him before every other bounty hunter does. That’s right, buddy. If I know King Lovelace like I think I do, he’s probably offering hundreds of thousands of gold pieces just for that bastard Gargoth’s head. He doesn’t offer that kind of money unless the bounty head is really goddamn hard to find. So, not only do you get to play chit-chat with your little butt buddy, but you also get to make some money off of the whole thing. If I had that much money, I’d stop walking around dressed like the grim reaper.”
“Money? You think I give two shits about the money?” said Ivan Blackstone in an angry whisper before clutching Horace around the throat and squeezing with his muscular hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Horace, if you make one more shitty comment about my friend like that, I will rip out your liver!”
The bartender would have passed out if Ivan didn’t release his grip shortly after hearing a noise from upstairs. Horace sat on the ground coughing up spittle, snot, and blood while sucking in every last breath of air he could. Ivan picked up his scythe and tried to make his way up the stairs to the attic when Horace stopped him with harsh words.
“That’s right, Ivan! You keep on defending that piece of shit! You keep telling yourself that he’s being controlled by someone else and this whole death angel gig is just a ruse! I’m sure even you will believe it someday!” Horace sucked in deeper breaths and said, “But know this…although I could never beat your ass in a fight, there’s someone out there who will have had enough of your bullshit and will rip YOUR liver out!”
Instead of engaging in another heated struggle with Horace, Ivan frankly said, “We have a spy in our midst. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to find whoever’s up there!” The scythe-wielding badass stormed up the stairs and into the attic, where the light, fast-paced footsteps confirmed to Horace what Ivan just said.
By the time Ivan made it to the top, he scoped around the dingy and dusty cluster bomb of whiskey barrels, but whoever was up here before was giving him a good slip. The squirrel-like footsteps sounded off from seemingly in all directions. Ivan’s eyes shot around everywhere until from out of the corner of his right eye, a pair of booted feet flew toward him and smashed him in the face. The orc was knocked backwards by the stinging, possibly bruise-forming kick, but he didn’t fall on his ass until tripping over a barrel.
Ivan was only slightly dizzy from that drop kick, so while he was lying on the ground, his vision was clear enough to spot a young female human rogue dashing toward the glass window and throwing another drop kick to break it open and make her escape. Such a powerful kick would have been enough to keep normal men down.
But this wasn’t any normal man. This was Ivan freaking Blackstone. He may not have been an orcish stereotype, but one thing he acknowledged as part of his race was his ability to endure beatings. He got up instantly, grabbed his scythe, and ran toward the window after whoever was spying on him and Horace. He screamed, “Get back here, you sneaky bitch!” and then jumped out the window himself in pursuit of this mysterious lady.
The distraught bartender stood at the counter absentmindedly running a dirty dish rag along the insides of the same mug for ten whole minutes. With his only customers turned to worm food, it didn’t matter to the public what his state of mind was at the time. His traumatized brain was about to be flooded with cold numbness when he saw a figure standing in the doorway in a black trench coat and a hood wielding a scythe. Horace dropped to the ground and cowered in fear thinking he really was dead after all.
Horace’s heart thumped in his chest and his body had gone cold with dripping sweat. Not another trauma, damn it! And then the orcish voice said, “It’s alright, Horace, it’s me, Ivan. The bartender slowly stood up and saw that the voice indeed belonged to Ivan Blackstone, an orc warrior who for some reason loved to dress up like the grim reaper and carry a scythe to boot. Ivan casually said, “Yeah, I know, weapons aren’t allowed.” before depositing his blade on the ground.
The bartender was both relieved and argumentative at the same time when he continued wiping his mug and said, “Listen, I don’t need a lecture about what happened last night. I’m not in the goddamn mood for another scare. So if you’re not going to order anything to drink, I suggest you take your soapbox somewhere else.”
Ivan slammed his palms on the counter (which spooked Horace into a little jump) and drummed his fingers while giving the barkeep a despising glare. “What did you think was going to happen when you allowed those two to fight each other? Does anybody take kindly to having their head shaved after getting their ass kicked? Do I also need to remind you that Gargoth Trencher, the one who lost that ‘wrestling’ match, was not just this ‘death angel’ everyone’s talking about; he was my best friend.”
“If you consider that monster to be your friend, then you’ve got some fucked up social skills, kid.”
“Anybody who runs a wrestling league from their bar doesn’t have the right to criticize other people’s social skills. Besides, all this death angel chatter is news to me as well. Gargoth didn’t look anything like that when I tried to talk him out of coming here. No warning signs at all. An arrogant prick? Maybe. Hardheaded? Absolutely. Death angel? Never would have guessed it in a million years.”
Still wiping down the same mug, Horace said, “So you think there’s some hocus pocus bullshit going on here? Hell, I’d probably learn some magic too if someone was bold enough to shave my head. That death angel gig can be pretty nice after losing a wrestling match.”
Ivan grabbed Horace by his shirt and pulled him closer for an even more intense stare down. “If you’re suggesting that Gargoth did this on purpose, then you’ve got more problems on your hands than a messed up bar. You’ve got a pissed off best friend to deal with!”
Horace’s initial fear was replaced with screaming anger when he said, “Best friend?! You call that monster your best friend?! You’re actually making excuses for someone who’s beyond redemption?! I always knew you were loyal to your friends, Ivan, but this is downright evil! Take a look around you, buddy! Look at all those burned corpses! Look them in the eyes and tell them your little theory about how Gargoth Trencher is an innocent man! I’m sure if they were alive today, they’d completely understand!”
The trench coat-wearing orc found himself unable to argue with that point and let go of Horace’s shirt. The bartender went right back to cleaning his glass when Ivan finally pointed it out to him: “You realize you’ve been wiping that same glass since I got here, right? Do you even know where the hell you are right now?”
The frustrated host threw the glass on the ground and stomped on it several times, “Of course I know where I am. I’m in hell! And there’s no way out! Come to think of it, you’re in hell too, my friend! It’ll only get worse when your so-called best friend lays those fiery eyes on you and turns you to shit with just one stare!”
“Trust me, Horace, I’m ready to scour the earth for Gargoth. This isn’t just about friendship. This is about getting the answers that I deserve. Maybe your dead patrons won’t like my innocence theory very much, but they probably would like some answers, at least their families would.”
Horace made a flat tire noise and said, “Okay, so you think you can find him before every other bounty hunter does. That’s right, buddy. If I know King Lovelace like I think I do, he’s probably offering hundreds of thousands of gold pieces just for that bastard Gargoth’s head. He doesn’t offer that kind of money unless the bounty head is really goddamn hard to find. So, not only do you get to play chit-chat with your little butt buddy, but you also get to make some money off of the whole thing. If I had that much money, I’d stop walking around dressed like the grim reaper.”
“Money? You think I give two shits about the money?” said Ivan Blackstone in an angry whisper before clutching Horace around the throat and squeezing with his muscular hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Horace, if you make one more shitty comment about my friend like that, I will rip out your liver!”
The bartender would have passed out if Ivan didn’t release his grip shortly after hearing a noise from upstairs. Horace sat on the ground coughing up spittle, snot, and blood while sucking in every last breath of air he could. Ivan picked up his scythe and tried to make his way up the stairs to the attic when Horace stopped him with harsh words.
“That’s right, Ivan! You keep on defending that piece of shit! You keep telling yourself that he’s being controlled by someone else and this whole death angel gig is just a ruse! I’m sure even you will believe it someday!” Horace sucked in deeper breaths and said, “But know this…although I could never beat your ass in a fight, there’s someone out there who will have had enough of your bullshit and will rip YOUR liver out!”
Instead of engaging in another heated struggle with Horace, Ivan frankly said, “We have a spy in our midst. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to find whoever’s up there!” The scythe-wielding badass stormed up the stairs and into the attic, where the light, fast-paced footsteps confirmed to Horace what Ivan just said.
By the time Ivan made it to the top, he scoped around the dingy and dusty cluster bomb of whiskey barrels, but whoever was up here before was giving him a good slip. The squirrel-like footsteps sounded off from seemingly in all directions. Ivan’s eyes shot around everywhere until from out of the corner of his right eye, a pair of booted feet flew toward him and smashed him in the face. The orc was knocked backwards by the stinging, possibly bruise-forming kick, but he didn’t fall on his ass until tripping over a barrel.
Ivan was only slightly dizzy from that drop kick, so while he was lying on the ground, his vision was clear enough to spot a young female human rogue dashing toward the glass window and throwing another drop kick to break it open and make her escape. Such a powerful kick would have been enough to keep normal men down.
But this wasn’t any normal man. This was Ivan freaking Blackstone. He may not have been an orcish stereotype, but one thing he acknowledged as part of his race was his ability to endure beatings. He got up instantly, grabbed his scythe, and ran toward the window after whoever was spying on him and Horace. He screamed, “Get back here, you sneaky bitch!” and then jumped out the window himself in pursuit of this mysterious lady.
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