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Bloodland Tales
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ISBN-10: 1-55404-112-0
ISBN-13: 
Genre: Dark Fantasy
eBook Length: 66 Pages
Published: January 2004
OUT OF PRINT

From inside the flap

"Each age calls forth its own prophet, a poetic oracle who sees past the heavy drapery we call "the world" to the prime reality that lies beyond. You should feel both ecstatic and terrified that our age has elicited M. J. Hewitt as its prose-lapidarian. Ecstatic, for Hewitt himself truly resonates with the daemonic muse, a voice that echoes from the depths of Tartarus and beckons forth, by turn, angels, devils, monsters, and gods. And terrified, for Hewitt sings not of arm-in-arm brotherhood and cozy lovingkindness, but rather of Yeats's "blood-dimmed tide," an aeon drenched in gore-bespattered corpses and unrelenting pain for the pitiable humans left alive.

"BLOODLAND TALES shimmers with the decadent imagery that Clark Ashton Smith conjured so easily, and in these opalescent prose-poems Hewitt both acknowledges his debt to "Klarkash-Ton" and progresses even further into a darkness-drenched universe without redemption, mercy, or salvation. There is no way to reach out to those we care for; only broad-axe slashes that leave gaping wounds. There is no bright afterlife with grace and holiness; only transmogrification through pain and torture as humans become parasitic spirits who lure others into torment. Love is destined to end in disillusionment and despair, and we learn our world itself is the black-tinged dream of distant alien beings our brains cannot even comprehend, beings who survive only through our suffering.

"You will find no words of comfort in this scarlet landscape. But for those who are able to realize the Baudelairean beauty that lies in decay, the Sadeian pleasure of witnessing another's hopeless prayer for mercy, the Lovecraftian awe of glancing into unilluminated gulfs in which madness dwells, Hewitt fills our descent into chaos with exquisite scenes, mixed in equal parts, of glamour and gore.

"I've joined the Cult of Hewitt. It's time you signed your soul away and joined as well."

Reviews and Awards

"I count newcomer Matt Hewitt among the strangest writers I've ever read. And that's a compliment because I read a lot of strange stuff. His prose poetry is remarkably original -- and a guttural snapshot of depraved madness. His writing is raw and vividly disturbing as fresh meat -- and just as muscular. His work pulsates with the throbbing gristle of a fresh wound; when you read it, you feel the narrator's pain and morbid loathing. This goth to the 25th power. And it always, always descends so deep into the darkness that there's never any hope. His collection, Bloodland Tales, is some sick stuff. I recommend it only to those with wide open minds and hardshelled hearts. Because Hewitt wants to pull you down into madness with the immediacy of his dark imagination. And he will. He certainly will." -- Michael Arnzen, author of Gorelets: Unpleasant Poems


?Piquant morsels of disturbing prose that are by turns startlingly gruesome and surreal. A real banquet of horror.? (Simon Clark, world famous best selling horror Author)

?MATTHEW J. HEWITT’S WORK ATTACKS FROM BEHIND LIKE A SUFFOCATION FETISHIST - INHALE YOUR LAST BREATH, FUCKER, THEN CHOKE ON HIS HELL-PLUNGED PROSE UNTIL YOU ARE BLUE IN THE FACE. WHEN YOU AWAKEN FROM UNCONSCIOUSNESS, TAKE ONE BIG DEEP BREATH AND BEGIN READING AGAIN. REPEAT UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD.? (hertzan chimera, 2003 Author and Editor)

?Matt J. Hewitt is renowned for his dark poetry and his prolific ability to capture murkiness of the psyche. I am a huge fan of Hewitt and this terror scribe. His talent is astonishing! He offers bad relationships, devilish beings, and commanding emotions into surrealistic prose! His craft is bewitching! Within these forty chilling tales of panic-screams of the mind, his mind, the mind of the DARK POET!
?The dread begins with the gory goblet that reigns supreme, the dark pits of throat-tearing screams of vengeance. You have not read horror, wicked doggerel, and been in the dark, unless you have tasted these crimson stained nightmares of the darkest versifier I know, Matt J. Hewitt!
?Journey into the BLOODLAND TALES and let the fear seep through your veins whilst you sit by the flickering tea-light of the night and bathe yourself in his darkness. (Brutal Dreamer, Editor and Author)

?Echoes of Poe here... M. J. Hewitt takes the reader on an inward journey into the familiar - albeit a fearful familiar that lays hidden under the bed alongside the dreaded bogeyman.
?Bloodland Tales is a collection of flash fiction and poetry which is intelligently written and throws a guiding light to the darkness it illustrates so well. I applaud the writer for a collection that probes deeply into the normally impenetrable...? (A. D. Dawson, Editor and Author)

?Bloodland Tales is a unique collection filled with vivid imagery. It’s a dark journey with scenes that remain in your thoughts long after reading the last page.
Thanks again.? (Kate Hill, Editor and Author)

?Each age calls forth its own prophet, a poetic oracle who sees past the heavy drapery we call ?the world? to the prime reality that lies beyond. You should feel both ecstatic and terrified that our age has elicited M. J. Hewitt as its prose-lapidarian. Ecstatic, for Hewitt himself truly resonates with the daemonic muse, a voice that echoes from the depths of Tartarus and beckons forth, by turn, angels, devils, monsters, and gods. And terrified, for Hewitt sings not of arm-in-arm brotherhood and cozy loving kindness, but rather of Yeats’s ?blood-dimmed tide?, an aeon drenched in gore-bespattered corpses and unrelenting pain for the pitiable humans left alive.
?BLOODLAND TALES shimmers with the decadent imagery that Clark Ashton Smith conjured so easily, and in these opalescent prose-poems Hewitt both acknowledges his debt to ?Klarkash-Ton? and progresses even further into a darkness-drenched universe without redemption, mercy, or salvation. There is no way to reach out to those we care for; only broad-axe slashes that leave gaping wounds. There is no bright afterlife with grace and holiness; only transmogrification through pain and torture as humans become parasitic spirits who lure others into torment. Love is destined to end in disillusionment and despair, and we learn our world itself is the black-tinged dream of distant alien beings our brains cannot even comprehend, beings who survive only through our suffering.
?You will find no words of comfort in this scarlet landscape. But for those who are able to realise the Baudelairean beauty that lies in decay, the Sadeian pleasure of witnessing another’s hopeless prayer for mercy, the Lovecraftian awe of glancing into unilluminated gulfs in which madness dwells, Hewitt fills our descent into chaos with exquisite scenes, mixed in equal parts, of glamour and gore. I?ve joined the Cult of Hewitt. It’s time you signed your soul away and joined as well.? (Scott Urban)


Bloodland Tales (Excerpt)


1. LIFE WITH THE BEAST

Above, the skies are orange with delicate pink swirling clouds, and below, the most beautiful face, the face of an angel, is smiling up at me, with warmth flooding from her gorgeous dark brown eyes.

She sings a sweet lullaby full of loving words, which fill me to the brim with happiness.

Below, attached to the bottom of her upper torso, dark spindly legs, swarming with maggots, fidget and thrash around, and on the tips of each of these five legs are bulbous shaped heads, malformed faces, shadowed by an impenetrable inner darkness, that pours like an evil sickness from each and every one of their fire filled eyes.

Words exude from their angry looking slashed mouths, words that somehow manage to squeeze past their flapping, thick, drooling serpentine tongues.

"Death, Darkness, Evil, three friends of mine." These words are repeated over and over again. And they pierce and gouge at my soul, which had become so tender due to the beautiful words of its opposite loving over half.


A sharp gleaming knife appears within the hand of the now distressed upper half, and with vigorous strokes she begins to cut and slash at the point where her body begins to transform into the nether region beast. For she can tolerate no longer the blasphemous words that burn like an acid at her brain, and eat like a famished cancer at her beautiful mind.

Eventually, after hours of cutting and severing of ligaments, muscles, and flesh, they are two.

Both halves, they lye limply now upon the ground in pools of their congealing scarlet blood.

And as the last life source slowly trickles from the beautiful halves? dying body, she manages to dip one delicate finger into the lake of blood, and with this scarlet bloody ink, she scrawls a short message across her pale skin. "Death is better than life with the beast; I will always, always love you. Farewell."