By Tom Piccirilli
This lyrical story of evil, loss, and redemption is a gorgeous addition to the Southern gothic culture of Flannery O’Connor and Harry Crews.
A Choir of sick Children is the startling tale of nation Come, a decaying, swamp backwater that attracts the misplaced, ill-fated, and damned.
Since his mother’s disappearance and his father’s suicide, Thomas has cared for his 3 brothers—conjoined triplets with separate our bodies yet one shared brain—and the town’s in basic terms undefined, the Mill.
Because of his family’s prominence, Thomas is feared and revered via the superstitious swamp folks. Granny witches solid hexes whereas Thomas’s youth sweetheart drifts via his real looking a vengeful ghost and his ally, a reverend struggling with the facility of tongues, is conquer with this curse as he attempts to warn of imminent risk. All Thomas learns is that “the carnival is coming.”
Torn by means of accountability and rage, Thomas needs to face his tormented prior in addition to the mysterious forces surging towards the city he loves and despises.
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I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly ineffectual light. I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery.
One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit.
A Choir of Ill Children by Tom Piccirilli