If you ask anyone who knows me, I am typically a prompt individual. I always show up to meetings, gatherings, parties, functions and to dinner arrangements on time. My guess is, I’ll most likely show up to my funeral promptly and dressed appropriately (whatever attire death mandates that day). Anyways, the point is, if I’m always prompt, then why’d I show up late to this Akashic Noir Series party? Well the answer is simply because I was never invited. In fact, I heard about this party from a friend of a friend of a friend. You see, there’s actually a story behind the whole ordeal. Upon deviating from my regular reading escapades, I stumbled on a lit-magazine called “Boulevard”. This magazine, which features an array of authors and poets (both well established and newbies to the craft), introduced me to a writer named, Joyce Carol Oates. Upon shaking introductory hands, Oates quickly tricked me into a waltz performance called, “The Suicide”—and in the words of Pulp Fiction’s Mia Wallace, “I said GODDAMNED!” After reading “The Suicide”, I was hooked and that is when I said, “I need to check out this Joyce Carol Oates”. So I put on my fedora hat, low enough to cover the top half of my face, my trench coat and fake mustache and stalked her every move. Let me tell you, that woman goes to many parties and dances a lot. During my stalking, I noticed her attend one of the Akashic Noir Series party…Prison Noir. I decided to attend it, late and uninvited. And-I-said-GODDAMNED, it was good. From Joyce Carol Oates’ intro to the last story—goddamned it was good.
Prison Noir is a collection of short stories about prison written by inmates across U.S. prisons. Our prison journey begins with a story called, “Shuffle” about an inmate in solitary confinement who is suddenly forced to share his solitary confinement with an unwanted guest. Our journey makes its way to a modern age angel of death, a jamming music band made up of different styled musicians, suicidal prisoners, another version of the angel of death, a fish that becomes a shark and finally a witness, who after decades of quietude, decides to tell it all. Prison Noir is well constructed and delivers what it promises—prison noir. I said it before and I’ll say it again, “GODDAMMED, it was 5-stars-goddamned-good”.
Note: If by any chance, Joyce Carol Oates is reading this review, or anyone who knows her, I want to make it clear that I’m not really stalking her. I don’t even own a fedora nor a trench coat. I do, however, own a fake mustache, which I wear for reasons that strictly pertain to self-ridicule. Having said that, I wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to meet her. In fact, being the aspiring writer I am, I’d love that.