All Things M4tt

Slaughterhouse 5, published in 1969, was the novel that propelled author Kurt Vonnegut into the minds of the masses. Written during the Vietnam war era, it focused on the ugliness of war, time travel, fate, free will and death (a lot of topics for 177 pages). Through Billy Pilgrim, Vonnegut channelled his own experiences of World War 2 and specifically being a POW in Dresden when the bombs fell. What he created was a novel rich with black humour, sentimentality and irony, that withstood time and became a staple of American Science Fiction.

What I loved:

The freedom and confidence to write honestly stands out. The book is centred around World War 2 and Vonnegut's own experiences but he expressed his ideas freely. He writes how he wants to write, which is easier said than done. He isn't tied down by the dark subject matter but isn't obscene or tasteless toward events. Great death happened, lives ended but Vonnegut is able to show the human side of war, the unseen elements that history books brush over. It's this freedom to tell war from his perspective that holds the most memorable moments throughout.

The choppiness of the narration is similar to Japanese pulp literature. One minute the story is in Dresden, the next it's in a hospital bed twenty years later, before quickly heading back to Dresden. Sometimes the travelling from different parts of Pilgrim's life happen three or four times on a page. It sounds odd and a recipe for disaster, but it's a testament to Vonnegut's skill that readers never feel lost.

Billy Pilgrim, the protagonist, is pretty empty, he watches and doesn't take part, almost like a kid in a Maths class far too difficult for him, but he won't put his hand up and say he's struggling. On initial glances Pilgrim appears to be a literary device, used by Vonnegut to tell his story, but as you dive into the story Pilgrim becomes an embodiment of the Tralfamadorians (aliens who destroy the universe, eventually, but not in this story - sounds wacky but it's not, at least not too much.) philosophy. It is a philosophy that questions fate and free will, think the oracle from The Matrix mixed with the apathy of Dr. Manhattan.

What I didn't love:
It's only 177 pages - when the only negative is it's too sure, you know you've done well.

Summary:

Slaughterhouse 5 is a fun read, showcasing the talents of an author who writes with confidence (TEACH ME!). It says a lot without saying a lot. As a victim of war, writing on war, Vonnegut could have fallen into the Robert Heinlein trap of devoting chapters and chapters of telling the reading why war is wrong, e.g Starship Troopers. Where Vonnegut succeeds is never forgetting that he is telling a story about Billy Pilgrim. He never loses sight of this, and it helps avoid preachiness and random episodes that webbed Heinlein's war based work.

This is a great read if you like humour, succinct writing and a story packed with reflections on society. I mentioned previously about the aliens and time travel, if that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea, I'd still give this book a go. Vonnegut uses these elements to create questions not commonly posed in alien/time travel work.

There it was. After a year of wandering, A year of following unfinished maps and the whims of blind mystics, we’d reached it - The Moving Castle of Fendor. It was huge, larger than the drawings and so blue it melted into the sky if you stared at it for too long. All we needed to do was climb the mountain range it rested upon, scale the walls it used for its foundations, fight off the undead army sworn to defend it, and find the gold locked away somewhere in a chamber called The Pit, which was supposedly guarded by a warlock who controlled matter. Simple. The real problem was the moving castle lived up to its name. The slabs of stone propping it up were its legs. No euphemism. The moment the castle felt it was under threat, it could break free from its rocky confines and move, either to flee or crush its awe struck opponents.

By this point in our journey we were a band of only 10. We started much larger, but danger and death are old lovers and we lost many good men and women. Captain Jekob, the leader of our troop, and the only member who thought vanilla garments looked good, was hell bent on success. Gossip had it, his family were killed by the castle years before and this entire crusade was about revenge, and not the life changing gold that he’d mentioned to rope in some of the best mercenaries in the eastern sector.

Many of us wanted to stop before tackling the castle, take stock of everything, make our final prayers, piss, you know the important stuff, but the captain wanted to push forward. Night was falling and he didn’t want to wake to find the castle gone or on the verge of attacking us. We knew the plan, every crazy element of it was drummed into us over and over, but we were spent. I tried to speak to the captain but he gave me the look, the look that said this wasn’t up for debate. The stare itself wasn’t particularly memorable, he did nothing unique with his eyes or eyebrows, but what he did do was slowly stroke the hilt of his sword. That was all. It rested above his hip and his fingers ran slow circles around it. You see, it’s whispered across the four sectors, that at Jekob’s birth he was born without a tear, or a hair on his head. The only thing he came into the world with was a sword, which he promptly used to cut his umbilical chord. Yes, this sounds ridiculous, but that’s until you see Jekob use a sword. There aren’t enough superlatives. Once he stroked his sword’s hilt your options were limited, continue or leave. So we marched on.

Before I say anything further, I must explain why no-one left or stopped listening to the captain’s orders. He wouldn’t have used his sword on anyone who wanted to leave, but no-one did because we trusted him, unequivocally. He was the best man any of us had ever known. He had saved everyone of our lives twice over, treated us as humans, as equals, and was a man completely of his word. We would have followed the captain to our deaths and sadly, on that day, all my friends did.

Artwork by @sparth
For more of Sparth's work visit - www.sparth.com/

Hell scorched in its eyes. Screams of a thousand nightmares rushed from its throat. Ruffian bucked, her reins tore across my palms but I held her tight. My muscles begged to run, to leave, to never look back, but I couldn't, not without answers. It wailed at us again, angered we hadn't used our common sense and fled. The stench of rotting torsos gusted from its mouth biting into my skin. Vomit washed my throat, I swallowed hard to stop it from making an appearance. Ruffian pulled again, she hoped my mind had wavered but I couldn't go, not without answers.

Artist: Marco Gonzalez - www.asfodelo.artstation.com

"Speak." Its voice echoed for miles around, shredding the scraps of confidence I had left.

I swallowed hard, desperate to stop my breakfast's march to my mouth. "I...I have the fire of a dragon!" I paused and waved the torch in front of me. After a few sways, and nothing from the beast, foolishness slowed my actions.

I stopped. Cocked my neck upwards and stared at the creature. Rolling clouds covered its body all the way to its neck. Its head was large like a hot air balloon but with more dents. Its eyes were so white they made plain paper look grey. Strings of tight flesh looked ready to peel from its cheeks.

Fresh wind blew through me, pulling me from my gawks. I continued. "and...and like it is prophesied you will bow to me." I coated my words with gruffness, as if that was how you drag attention out of a celestial being.

It didn't move. My eyes explored its gaunt face for answers, but found nothing. Standing, flame a loft, stomach cartwheeling and options limited, I repeated my declaration.

As my mouth wrapped around the words, the hills beneath me fell way. I gripped the torch and grabbed at thin air, desperate for anything. I fell hard but hit the ground before I could build any lethal speed.

Mist tumbled around me, masking everything, even my own nose was a struggle to see. I stepped forward and the ground lifted. Every muscle in my body clenched.

I quickly breached the mist and returned to the creature's face. The ground beneath me, which was part-circled by tiny hills, didn't stop though. Within seconds, I'd left the face below and was high above the clouds. The horizon circled me in every direction. The sheer expanse stole my breath. This is what my ancestors must have felt when planes owned the skies.

The ground shook. I spun around, gripping the torch tighter than my palms liked.

The creature's head rose back into view. This time rising higher and higher, revealing it's neck, shoulders, arms and chest. Without the masking clouds, I realised I stood in the palm of this thing's hands. The hills I had climbed and then fallen from were its fingers.

"You humans and your beliefs. You learnt to control fire in your infancy. Do you think it could control me?" It reached for my torch, and killed the flames before I could protect it. "Like it is prophesised..." It mocked.

I stood surprised and then a smile grabbed my lips, tugging them upwards. "She said the only way to know it was you was through your ego." The crevasses in its face networked to new places. I pulled out the amulet. It had bleached a pale yellow, confirming everything.

Fear looks the same on every creature, even a celestial being as old as time!

**Artwork by Jacob Duncan - https://www.artstation.com/jacobduncan**

Ever since I could remember, I could tell how dangerous people were. Not like a police officer, picking out the criminal amongst a large crowd and they just so happened to be black. I mean actually tell those who could rip your heart out and feed it to you through your nostrils, and those who still sleep with their teddy bears.

It appears as a number. Everyone that I see has a number above their head.

I was seven when my parents first realised every person I drew had a numeral above them. I thought that's how people looked. I was eight when my mum sought help. I'd drawn a couple of super-villains with loads of sixes above them and Mum thought I was the anti-Christ.

I saw every specialist in the country. A Mr Wang from China, and an American who believed the numbers were my subconscious trying to contact the ghost of Tupac Shakur. Would you believe he supposedly studied at Harvard and roomed with a former president?

It was Doctor Javier who finally believed me. After a further six thousand pounds, as my dad always points out, he realised what the numbers represented.

Mum wanted everything kept a secret. She grew up reading Marvel comics and worried her son might become a government weapon. Dad did what all husbands in happy, stable marriages do and agreed with Mum. Doctor Javier had worked with a whole heap of 'keeks' (his word not mine) and agreed silence was the best policy. He also agreed that wicker shoes, chequered chinos and linen shirts went well together, but I liked him.

According to Doctor J, the numbers were scores out of ten and showed a person's potential for danger. For example, little old ladies walking their dogs are usually ones, except for Miss Jaeger on Argyle Street. She's a three. Apparently, she grew up on the wrong side of town and learnt how to sever limbs before she could tie her own laces.

When I see petty criminals, they might be a four/five. A trained soldier is usually a six. You get my drift? The highest numbers are reserved for the proper dangers to the world like politicians and bankers. They come in with sevens and sometimes eights.

I remember going home after my diagnosis and understanding what I could do. It was a huge weight off my shoulders. It was real, and not a possible brain tumour as that idiot Mr Wang stated, before asking for ten grand to heal me with green tea and acupuncture.

Mum wedged it in my head what would happen if anyone else found out. So, I stopped drawing numbers above heads and never spoke about it to anyone else.

I was annoyed I couldn't tell anyone but it was awesome being a 'keek' at school. Imagine being able to spot the dangerous kids a mile off. I remember my first ever altercation. I accidentally tripped this kid and he wanted to fight. He was a foot smaller than me and looked like he did chemotherapy for a hobby. I'm a selective pacifist, which means if I can take pummel someone, I select to waver my pacifism. So, I chose to give this punk a lesson. All the other kids circled around us and turned it into a real playground cauldron of chanting. Testosterone and bad ideas swirled as one. Next thing, a four appeared above the kid’s head - an actual four. After I scraped my jaw from the floor, I used every excuse in the book to avoid getting my head smashed in. I lost some street cred' but kept my teeth. Good thing too. A week later, he put Butch Rivera, school bully and most likely to become a bear, in hospital.

My powers weren't just for self-preservation though. Dad realised he could make some money from them too. We would wait for a boxing match to be announced. Drive down to the press conference, to see the boxers promoting the fight and I’d see their numbers. Dad would then put money on the higher number, and they'd win every time. It's like my powers understood the sweet science behind boxing and could tell who was the most dangerous with their fists. We went to Tokyo, first class, off the back of one of Dad's bets.

By the way, my powers only work on people I'm near. Everything on the television is numberless.

My powers also work on animals. You know those big muscular guys that walk around with those huge dogs with muzzles on them? Guess what? They're all ones, every last one of them. The real vicious ones are those little terriers. Twos and threes some of them. Vicious little things! Squirrels are ones, pigeons are ones and spiders are ones. Lions are 5s, even the cuddly ones in the zoo. I’ve never seen a lion with less than that.

I love my powers, I really do. I just wish they helped me with the ladies. A little flying or super strength, now and then, wouldn't go a miss.

Take this new girl that's started working at my store. She is something else. Her hair is perfection, like every God ever created sat down and worked together to sculpt it. Her walk spits in the face of every runway model ever! And her face... Honestly, I hear music when I stare at her for too long. It’s real deep classical stuff with harps and lyres. Probably be too mushy for Keats and Shelley.

But… she doesn't even notice me. Nothing.

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And I'm not sure how to say this but she might be a ten. It popped up above her head the first morning she walked in. It has to be a mistake though, a consequence of her hotness. She's messing with my radar somehow. I mean a part from teenage heart attacks and men fighting to the death for her love, how could she be the most dangerous creature on the planet?

Book Review: Slaughterhouse 5

The Castle

Not without answers.

Bow to me

The Most Dangerous Creature in the World

Follow me

We need to talk about Matthew!

Things I did and things I think I did

Best Of The Best

Hordes of Hell (Love you really)

Books that have tickled my fancy

Owl Post

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