About the Author:
Roland Allnach has been writing since his early teens, first as a hobby, but as the years passed, more as a serious creative pursuit. He is an avid reader, with his main interests residing in history, mythology, and literary classics, along with some fantasy and science fiction in his earlier years. Although his college years were focused on a technical education, he always fostered his interest in literature, and has sought to fill every gap on his bookshelves.
By nature a do-it-yourself type of personality, his creative inclinations started with art and evolved to the written word. The process of creativity is a source of fascination for him, and the notion of bringing something to being that would not exist without personal effort and commitment serves not only as inspiration but as fulfillment as well. So whether it is writing, woodwork, or landscaping, his hands and mind are not often at rest.
Over the years he accumulated a dust laden catalog of his written works, with his reading audience limited to family and friends. After deciding to approach his writing as a profession, and not a hobby, the first glimmers of success came along. Since making the decision to move forward, he has secured publication for a number of short stories, has received a nomination for inclusion in the
Pushcart Anthology, built his own website, and in November 2010 realized publication for an anthology of three novellas, titled
Remnant, from All Things That Matter Press. Remnant has gone on to favorable critical review and placed as Finalist/Sci-fi, 2011 National Indie Excellence Awards; Bronze Medalist, Sci-Fi, 2012 Readers Favorite Book of the Year Awards; and Award Winner-Finalist, Sci-Fi, 2012 USA Book News Best Book Awards. Roland’s second publication,
Oddities& Entities, also from All Things That Matter Press, followed in March 2012. It, too, has received favorable critical review, and is the recipient of four awards: Bronze Medalist, Horror, and Finalist, Paranormal, 2012 Readers Favorite Book of the Year Awards; Award Winner-Finalist, Fiction/Horror and Fiction/Anthologies, 2012 USA Book News Best Book Awards.
His writing can best be described as depicting strange people involved in perhaps stranger situations. He is not devoted to any one genre of writing. Instead, he prefers to let his stories follow their own path. Classification can follow after the fact, but if one is looking for labels, one would find his stories in several categories. Sometimes speculative, other times supernatural, at times horror, with journeys into mainstream fiction, and even some humor- or perhaps the bizarre. Despite the category, he aims to depict characters as real on the page as they are in his head, with prose of literary quality. His literary inspirations are as eclectic as his written works- from Poe to Kate Chopin, from Homer to Tolkien, from Flaubert to William Gibson, from Shakespeare to Tolstoy, as long as a piece is true to itself, he is willing to go along for the ride. He hopes to bring the same to his own fiction.
About the Book:
‘Oddities & Entities’ is a surreal, provocative anthology of six tales within the supernatural/ paranormal/horror genres, exploring a definition of life beyond the fragile vessel of the human body. The stories are: ‘Boneview’,in which a young woman struggles to balance her ability to see through people with the presence of a supernatural creature in her life; ‘Shift/Change’, in which a hospital worker struggles to regain his memory as he is confronted by a series of desperate people; ‘My Other Me’, in which a lonely college student finds himself displaced from his body by his alter ego; ‘Gray’, in which a frustrated man is stunned to discover a little creature has been living in his head; ‘Elmer Phelps’, in which a brother and sister find themselves linked in a strange reality by a bat bite in their youth; and lastly, ‘Appendage’, in which a cynical mercenary is hired by his son to protect a research lab on the verge of a stunning discovery.
Praise for Oddities & Entities:
“Oddities & Entities” by Roland Allnach, categorized as horror fiction, is unlike any other horror fiction I have ever encountered. The book is comprised of six stories, each of which is written a cut above the norm. There are no recognizable monsters in these stories, no sophomoric zombies, no evil ancient vampires, and none of the standard fare I have become accustomed to in the horror genre. I do like the usual run of the horror genre, but this book is written with thoughtful intelligence, for an intelligent adult reader. I do not mean to imply sexual situations or coarse language. What I mean is, any intelligent reader, capable of deep thought, will find this book irresistible. The six individual stories are as unlike as any six stories can be, yet each one is so sufficiently well-written that, if sold as individual short stories, I wouldn’t hesitate to award 5 stars to each of them.
To say I like this book is a crass understatement. Each story drew me in and evoked my empathy for various characters. These stories forced me to actually think beyond what I was reading. Each premise was unique, at least in my experience; I have never encountered any other stories that even approach the situations these present with authority and authenticity. If I could boil down my perception of this book into a single word, that word would be WOW! Roland Allnach’s first anthology, “Remnant”, which I have also read, was placed as a finalist in the Science Fiction category in the 2011 National Indie Excellence Awards. I absolutely expect “Oddities & Entities” to follow suit. If you read only one book this year, make it this one. Be prepared to have your comfort zone challenged.
– Readers Favorite (ReadersFavorite.com)
Oddities & Entities Tour Page:
First Chapter
BO N E VI EW
Before Allison knew the meaning of words or the context of
visions,
she knew the Curmudgeon. It was there, lodged in her
earliest memories,
the memories that imbed themselves deep in the psyche to
shadow all
future memories. When she lay in her crib as a pale and
lumpy baby, she
didn’t know to cry when it came in her room, when it passed
through her
walls as if their existence were some unsubstantiated rumor
rather than
studs, slats, and plaster. And though at any greater age she
might have
cowered and screamed, in her unclouded infantile mind there
was no
reference for fear or judgment, only the absorbance of what
was. Perhaps
the Curmudgeon knew this but, then again, perhaps not. As
the years
passed, it was a matter of little importance.
She remembered her first years of school. She was different;
this
realization was as stark as the full moon visits of the
Curmudgeon were
fantastic. When other children clamored to play in the sun
and warmth,
she found herself possessed by an ever-present chill. She
felt most
comfortable wearing black, without perceiving any conscious
decision to
that end. She preferr ed to stay inside, or in places of
deep shade or
shadow, and gaze out at the light. It wasn’t that she
shunned the warm
light of the Florida
sun, but the glare seemed to scald her eyes with its
white intensity. Her eyes were her source of distinction,
after all. Vast for
her narrow face, their luminous, sea green irises formed
tidal pools about
the tight black dots of her pupils. Her stare was one that
few could bear
for long. Children and teachers alike found her unblinking
silence a most
uncomfortable experience, and her mute distraction in school
led to the
inevitable conclusion that she wasn’t very bright.
She had no friends. Her world, though, wasn’t as lonesome as
it may
have seemed.
She lived with her grandmother, a reclusive widow of Creole
descent,
who wandered about their old manor house singing under her
breath in
her broken French dialect. Allison loved the old house,
despite its state of
disrepair and the ratty look of its worn exterior, with the
few remaining
patches of white paint peeling off the grayed wood
clapboard. The oak
floors creaked, but there was something timeless about the
place, with its
high ceilings, spacious rooms and front colonnade. The house
was
surrounded by ancient southern oaks; they were broad,
stately trees, the
likes of which one could only find in Florida. Their sinewy, gargantuan
branches split off low from the trunk, with gray-green
leaves poking out
between dangling veils of Spanish moss. The trees shielded
Allison from
the sun, and provided a home for squirrels, chipmunks, and
birds. The
Curmudgeon would leave their cleaned skulls on her
windowsill as gifts
when the moon waxed in silvery twilight.
Her parents loved her—or so they claimed, when she would see
them. They seemed more like friends than her elders. She
often watched
them with curious eyes, peering from her window at night as
they
frolicked about the front lawn. Her mother, very much a
younger vision
of her grandmother, had long dark hair, hair that would sway
about her
as she danced naked under the trees at night. Her father
would be there
with her, dancing naked as well, the strange designs
tattooed down his
back often blending with the swaying lengths of Spanish
moss. They
claimed to be moon cultists, though Allison had no idea what
that meant.
It was of no matter. Soon enough they became part of the
night,
passing to her dreams forever.
The memory of that change was the first emotional turmoil of
her
secluded little life. She was seven, and her parents had
come out for the
weekend. It was one of those times when her parents sat
under the
sprawling branches of the oaks, drinking and smoking
throughout the
day until they lay back on a blanket, their glazed eyes
hidden behind
their sunglasses. The hours drifted by, and the day faded to
the lazy
serenity of a Florida
evening. Beneath long, golden rays of sunshine they
began to stir, rising from their stupor to a restless sense
of wanderlust.
They came in the house after dinner, settling themselves at
the table and
exchanging small talk as Allison ate a bowl of vanilla ice
cream with
rainbow sprinkles. They smiled over Allison’s drawings,
complimenting
her budding artistic skills, and talked to her grandmother
about some
plans for the next weekend. Even at her young age Allison
could tell her
grandmother humored them. Her parents didn’t have a false
bone in
their body, but they were not reliable people. Free spirits,
her
grandmother would say.
Yet as those thoughts rolled about Allison’s head her eyes
seemed to
blur, and she stared at her parents with that unnerving,
unblinking gaze
of hers. Her heart began to race, her skin tingled, and then
it came to her:
not a shadow, but a different kind of light than the sun, a
light that
seemed to seep from within her parents, until the tactile
periphery of
their bodies became a pale shadow over the ivory glow of
their skeletons.
She trembled in her seat as the sight gained clarity until
she could see all
their bones in all their minute detail, but then it changed,
changed in a
way that froze her blood in her veins. Black fracture lines
spread across
the smooth ivory like running rivers of ink, until every
bone in their
bodies was broken to jagged ruin.
Her grandmother called her name, snapping her out of her
stupor.
She blinked, then screamed and ran from the table to the
living room.
Her parents and grandmother came after her, but she buried
her head
under the couch pillows. Despite the pillows, the moment she
opened her
eyes she could see them, right through the pillows and
couch, standing
there in their shattered translucence. She ran for her room,
scratching at
her eyes, and that was when things changed. Her grandmother
charged
after her, following her to her room, and tore through every
drawer until
she found the small collection of skulls Allison kept—the
tokens the
Curmudgeon had left her. Her grandmother stuffed her in her
closet,
closed the door to her room, and sat outside the door. She
could hear her
grandmother’s voice, even in the dark of the closet. She
clamped her eyes
shut; it was a desperate final measure to blot out the sight
of her parents.
She could see them, through the walls, through the floor,
through the
trees, as they hopped on her father’s motorcycle and raced
off.
She screamed for them to stop, but she was a child with a
trifling
voice, stuffed in a closet.
She cried herself to sleep.
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