A Choir of Ill Children by Tom Piccirilli

By Tom Piccirilli

This lyrical story of evil, loss, and redemption is a beautiful addition to the Southern gothic culture of Flannery O’Connor and Harry Crews.

A Choir of ailing Children is the startling tale of country Come, a decaying, swamp backwater that pulls 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 simply undefined, the Mill.

Because of his family’s prominence, Thomas is feared and revered via the superstitious swamp folks. Granny witches forged hexes whereas Thomas’s formative years sweetheart drifts via his lifelike a vengeful ghost and his ally, a reverend being affected by the ability of tongues, is conquer with this curse as he attempts to warn of coming near near risk. All Thomas learns is that “the carnival is coming.”

Torn via 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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The Frogman on the far right of the group was a huge figure, well over seven feet. He tottered on high heels that made him seem monstrously camp. His laboured breathing, slow and steady through the air-tube of his heavy rubber gas mask, or discipline helmet, carried over the heads of the crowd. A ponderous latex suit swathed his body. Beneath his suit very loose thin rubber bloomers hung. His balls were tightly strapped around the base of his scrotum. That sexual tension, Horror knew, would make him a more exacting biexcreterminator.

The musculature of the man's head fell, and slopped, light as a sherry trifle. Horror snapped his mouth open-and-shut in broad crushing strokes. In his cheeks, blood and bone meshed in a stew, and he chewed solidly on the head. Intermittently, he shook it, as a dog shakes a bone. As he ate, the giant Frogman's body jerked in a solo masturbatory dance against his body. Horror spoke through a swell of blood, 'Trying to fuck me, Sonny Jim? I thought you had your 'union card' in fornication; that you were a finished swordsman.

The sight of them was like seeing old friends. The Filipino fighting knife-the balisong-protruded from the waders. The urban skinner, a push dagger held like a corkscrew for a twist death, was THE FROGMEN 43 fixed to the waistbands. Horror's teeth gleamed in the neon as he watched the bobbing chiselled armour-piercing black head of the tanto sneak from the sleeve of a Frogman's macintosh. The fixed single-edged stainless steel blade was designed to slash and drive. Held correctly, with the blade running along the forearm, it was almost impossible to block.

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