Miniature Moments

The Littlest Feeling
, Michael Peverett (172pp, Disengagement Books)

The emphatic use of lower case of title name and author ought to have warned me of the tome's short-cummings. The opening story flows as almost isolated stanzas linked by verbal banalities and profanities is consummate measure, 'as far as the esso':

     No hurry or anything.

     Fuck off.

     They started to laugh.

     Are we going to fucking Garys's or what.

I think that what ought to have ended with a question mark, but who cares? And this is an endemic problem in much of the work: one is not bothered about the characters, the situation or ‘plot/dramatic arc'. In fact, it is more dramatic rubble as if any story-telling construction had been hit by a tsunami of disregard; the author could not quite be bothered building anything, though slightly appreciative of his juvenile Lego set. A pyrrhic victory of mutual disinterest between reader and writer.

There are sixty stories in this collection. Duty rather than desire drew me on. Tiresome, inconsequential and dull, please, judge for yourself, 'military vehicles':

     That was the cheapo of their newsprint, trees
     in the morning, pronged RSJs, prolonged absences
     and looks of fear. Whiskey. Telephone. And the
     handsome builders and all, coventrated.

'Matty Boy' contains a singular laugh, but for this story and the next and the next … the rewards are meagre.

There are sixty stories in this collection, sixty too many. A pointless collection of texts with less utility than a phone book and only slightly more aesthetic reward. Forgive me as I absent myself to boil an egg.

      © Daithidh MacEochaidh 2011