Then suddenly Theophile’s body opens like a flower made of carrion, and

she sinks into him. Her elbows are trapped in the brittle cage of his ribs. Her face is pressed into the bitter soup of his organs. Rosalie whips her head to one side. Her face is a mask of putrescence. It is in her hair, her nostrils; it films her eyes. She is drowning in the body that once gave her sustenance. She opens her mouth to scream and feels things squirming in between her teeth

First things first, Swamp Foetus by Poppy Z. Brite* is one of the best titles I’ve come across for a horror short story collection. I definitely would’ve picked it up if I had seen it on a store shelf.

I have never been to New Orleans. Swamp Foetus makes me feel like I have. A twisted and morbid version that Brite writes with such intense vividness that it feels undeniably real despite how clearly it has been given a horror coating. 

Dan Simmons in the collection’s introduction calls Brite’s writing “deliciously erotic” and “sweetly savage”, terms of praise that pinpoint exactly what makes the collection so worthwhile. Brite is not the first writer to realise the potential of the erotic for horror fiction - Clive Barker’s The Hellbound Heart springs immediately to mind - but never has the erotic felt as fundamentally sinful as it does in these stories. 

The atmosphere Brite created was always rich in sensory details, and I never found myself disliking a story. Of course some tales stood out as highlights upon first reading, a judgement call reinforced by the way they have lingered in my memory since. 

‘Calcutta, Lord of Nerves’ is one of the best zombie stories I have ever read. The decision to set the zombie apocalypse in a large Indian city would’ve lent it some memorability no matter the rest of the story, but that is the least of what makes the story so interesting, so entertaining. The world has fallen to a zombie horde, the city Calcutta remade into a city of the dead, and the narrator doesn’t seem to care at all. Apathetic to the extreme, the narrator drifts through the city, observing the city’s decay and the grotesque incidents between the dead and the dwindling living survivors with an eerie detachment. The story concludes with a temple scene that is as surreal as it is horrifying.

‘The Elder’ is at first glance a short, simple story about a married couple and their young son. It reveals itself to be a story that asks what is the difference between love and obsession, and what it means to put someone above all others. There is horror here too, rest assured. Perhaps you will see it coming, I think it will still be effective either way.

In ‘His Mouth Will Taste Of Wormwood’ a pair of jaded hedonists who think they have exhausted all pleasures in life, sexual or otherwise, delve into the occult in an effort to find something new. As one might expect, the results for them are not entirely pleasurable. In this story the occult elements are given as much reverence as the act of going out to nightclubs, a blending that is managed perfectly. 

‘The Sixth Sentinel’ is a strange story wherein what is truly memorable about it is not immediately obvious. The story bluntly introduces its fantastical element in the opening paragraphs: an aimless young woman is haunted by a ghost in New Orleans. Primed by the other stories set in New Orleans so far, the reader will think they understand broadly where the story is heading. They will not. However the highlight of the story - in my mind, perhaps the highlight of the entire collection - occurs in a flashback to the woman as a young teen as she goes to the graveyard to seek closure over a murdered lover. However monsoon season has struck the graveyard and the woman gets far closer than intended to her lover. A passage from this section is quoted above.

Swamp Foetus is not the gentlest starting point for the world of horror fiction. Brite is perfectly willing to be offensive and grotesque if the story calls for it (though there is never a sense that such shock factor elements are being mindlessly employed). There is a feeling in reading Brite’s writing that nothing is off-limits…as long as it might be aesthetically pleasing. Fans of sensual writing will find plenty of passages to enjoy, Brite always writing seriously no matter how ludicrous the subject matter might appear at a glance. Horror fans who put horror before all other concerns will likewise find something to be entertained by with these stories whose best rival the greatest of Clive Barker’s Books of Blood.

*Poppy Z. Brite goes by William Joseph Martin today. Swamp Foetus has also been changed in later editions, now titled Wormwood