{"product_id":"bright-segments-the-complete-short-fiction-isbn-9781641295543","title":"Bright Segments: The Complete Short Fiction","description":"\u003cb\u003eFor the first time ever, the complete short fiction of literary legend James Sallis is collected in one gorgeous volume—a must-have gift for the crime, mystery, or speculative fiction fan in your life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePublished over the six decades of Sallis's storied career, the complete collection contains 154 stories, 11 of which are exclusive to this volume.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy all accounts, James Sallis is a multi-hyphenate, once-in-a-generation thinker—an innovator of multiple genres, styles, and forms. \u003ci\u003eLit Hub \u003c\/i\u003ehas compared Sallis to contemporaries Don DeLillo and Thomas Pynchon. While he is revered as a literary godfather of the crime and noir genres—his contributions including such works \u003ci\u003eDrive\u003c\/i\u003e, now a cult-classic film, and his Lew Griffin series—he is equally respected among speculative fiction practitioners for the work he began publishing in science fiction magazines in the 1960s. He is recognized for his uncompromising craft, and for the poetry, philosophy, and empathy he imbues in each glittering moment. Now, for the first time ever, Sallis’s complete short fiction—154 stories—is collected in one gorgeous volume—a must-have library addition for readers of speculative fiction and noir, and for writers of all genres.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for\u003ci\u003e Bright Segments\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For those readers familiar with Sallis primarily as the author of \u003ci\u003eDrive\u003c\/i\u003e (later adapted into an ultra-violent, neon-infused film with Ryan Gosling) and the Lew Griffin mystery novels, \u003ci\u003eBright Segments\u003c\/i\u003e contains one big surprise: many of the stories are science fiction, a genre that Sallis has explored deeply throughout his life, bending it to his whims in all kinds of ways. There’s something in here for everyone, from the bleakly comedic ‘The Invasion of Dallas’ (aliens find relationships just as confusing as humans) to the disquieting ‘New Teeth’ (which comes off as a more ghostly ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’).”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Nick Kolakowski, CrimeReads\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like a hive bereft of its queen, Sallis’ world buzzes endlessly with worker bees and drones.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for James Sallis\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The power of simplicity and the musical ring of truth as only Sallis can deliver it—as he has done bravely, consistently, for the last few decades.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Then there’s James Sallis – he’s right up there, one of the best. It is quite possible that speaking of Jim Sallis in the same tone as Poe and Dostoevsky is not overblowing on my part.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Harlan Ellison\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“James Sallis is one of our greatest living crime writers . . . Try to get his words, his stories, his people out of your head. Just try.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Laura Lippman, author of \u003ci\u003eLady in the Lake\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sallis is a sure hand—characters and prose, of course, dialogue, too, but he is also a subtle weaver of plot, with the perfect level of push. His descriptions evoke a place more real than mere realism could render, and his people speak and sweat and live and die and it's all a great pleasure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Daniel Woodrell, author of \u003ci\u003eWinter’s Bone\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the most enjoyable and most important writers working today, James Sallis has quietly revolutionized an entire genre of literature.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sara Gran, author of \u003ci\u003eCome Closer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJames Sallis \u003c\/b\u003ehas published eighteen novels, including \u003ci\u003eDrive\u003c\/i\u003e, which was made into a now-iconic film, and the six-volume Lew Griffin series. He is a recipient of the Hammett Prize for literary excellence in crime fiction, the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière, the Deutsche Krimipreis, and the Brigada 21 in Spain, as well as Bouchercon’s Lifetime Achievement Award. His biography of Chester Himes was a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book of the Year, and he has been shortlisted for the Anthony, Nebula, Edgar, Shamus, and Gold Dagger Awards.\u003cb\u003eKazoo\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Walking down the street on my way to see The Leech, I’m attacked by this guy who jumps out of the alley shouting \u003ci\u003eHai! Hai! Feefifofum!\u003c\/i\u003e (you know: bloodcurdling) over and over, cutting air with the sides of his bands. He says \u003ci\u003eHai!\u003c\/i\u003e again, then \u003ci\u003eWatch out, man! I’m gonna lay you open!\u003c\/i\u003e He’s still assaulting the air, battering it too.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     My\u003c\/i\u003e, I think, \u003ci\u003ean alley cat\u003c\/i\u003e. Then I stand off and kind of watch this little dance he’s doing. Dispassionately in front, you see, but I get to admiring it. I mean, he’s cutting some great steps, beating hell out of the air. I snap my fingers for him, clap a little.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     You watch out, man!\u003c\/i\u003e he says. \u003ci\u003eYou get cute, I’m gonna hurt you bad, put you through that wall there.\u003c\/i\u003e Then he goes back to his \u003ci\u003eHai!\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eFeefifofum!\u003c\/i\u003e He’s standing off about three yards from me, jumping around, chopping his hands back and forth, looking mean, a real hardankle. He’s about five foot and looks like he might have modeled for Dylan Thomas’s bit about the “bunched monkey coming.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eBy this time there’s quite a crowd piling up. They’re all standing around clapping, snapping their fingers, digging the action. Some guy in like black heads in to sell \u003ci\u003eWatchtowers\u003c\/i\u003e and this Morton pops up and starts passing around stone tablets and pillows of salt. There’s a guy out on the edge of the crowd, he’s picking pockets, got three arms. Deep Fat Friar passes by, frowns, goes on down the street flogging himself with a vinyl fly swatter. And there’s this cop on the fringe giving out with a mantra of dispersal. \u003ci\u003eIbishuma, go go; Ibishuma, go go\u003c\/i\u003e. (Don’t think he had it quite right, you know?)\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eOne guy pulls out a set of plastic spoons and commences to make them go clackety-clack, clackety-clack between his thumb and great toe. Another guy has a kazoo. Someone else is trying to get them to do “Melancholy Baby.” \u003ci\u003eTake your clothes off and be adancin’ bare\u003c\/i\u003e, this smartass yells out of the back of the crowd. He \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e kinda hairy, this guy.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Come on, Ralph\u003c\/i\u003e, he shouts at me. \u003ci\u003eCome on, man, we’re gonna tangle. Hai! Feefifofum!\u003c\/i\u003e But you can tell he likes it, the attention I mean, because he goes up on his toes and pirouettes.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI stand there looking at him, frowning a little, dispassionate again. I mean, I’m getting kind of tired of the bit by now. Some guy comes by about then with a monkey on his back, grinding at a nut-chopper. Another one’s hunkered down on the corner to demonstrate his Vegamatic; his buddy’s scraping bananas. And there’s this like arthritic wobbling down the sidewalk with a Dixie cup, begging green stamps.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Hai! Hai! Hing!\u003c\/i\u003e (that last one way up in the nose).\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eHe stops and drops his hands, looks down at the concrete, shuffles his feet. \u003ci\u003eAw come on, Ralph\u003c\/i\u003e . . . Then he’s \u003ci\u003eHai!-\u003c\/i\u003eing and \u003ci\u003eFeefifofum!-\u003c\/i\u003eing again, going at it like mad, jumping around.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eAnd by this time I’m beginning to get \u003ci\u003ereal\u003c\/i\u003e tired. I mean, I put up with his bag through here but now I’m gonna be late to see The Leech, so I—and let this be a lesson to all of you—I move in for the kill. I’ve been watching Captain Conqueroo on the morning tube, you see, and I’m like eager to try this thing out. So when this guy sees me coming and charges in, I just step ever so casually to one side and with a sudden blur of motion I get him with the Triple-Reverse Elbow Block, lay it right on him. He folds up like a letter that’s getting put in an envelope that’s too small for it and he falls down in like slow motion. His tongue’s hanging out and a fly’s walking up it toward his teeth.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Name’s not Ralph\u003c\/i\u003e, I tell him. Then I stand there humming along with the spoons and kazoo till he can breathe again. Which doesn’t take him over twenty minutes or so—we’d only got through “Black Snake Rag,” “Mountain Morning Moan,” and part of “America the Beautiful” (raga form).\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eAnyhow, he starts coming back from violet toward the pinkish end of the spectrum, and he looks up at me and he says, \u003ci\u003eAw gee, Algernon\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003ci\u003e Look, give me a chance. Sorry I bugged you.\u003c\/i\u003e Saying that reminds him of something and he stops long enough to spit out the fly. \u003ci\u003eWasn’t my idea\u003c\/i\u003e, he goes on. \u003ci\u003eNothing personal against you, guy told me to do it . . . Bartholomew?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI shake my head. I kick him a little. \u003ci\u003eWho.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Guy just came up to me at the bus stop, told me you were on your way to the bank, don’t know who he was. Said if I beat you up I could have the money and if I didn’t he’d send his parakeet out to get me . . . Chauncey?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI kick him again. \u003ci\u003eBig guy? Southerner? Hair looked like a helmet? Scar where his nose should be, cigar stuck in it?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Yeah . . . Look, you wouldn’t be Rumpelstiltskin by any chance?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Sorry.\u003c\/i\u003e I tell him that as I’m kicking him.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Didn’t think so.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI reach down to help him up, since he’s obviously going to need help. \u003ci\u003eThat’d be Savannah Rolla, a friend of mine\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eI tell him. Savvy’s a film-maker and I know he and a poet-type by the name of Round John Virgin are hassling with a love epic called \u003ci\u003eBloodpies\u003c\/i\u003e—in which the symbols of the mudcake, the blood bath, the cow patty, and innocent youth find their existential union—so I look around for the cameras. But I can’t spot them.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     I’m on my way to the blood bank\u003c\/i\u003e, I tell the guy. \u003ci\u003eHe’s got a funny sense of humor, Savannah does. Do anything for a friend, though.\u003c\/i\u003e And since his hand’s in mine anyway since I’m helping him up, I shake it.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Ferdinand Turnip\u003c\/i\u003e, I introduce myself—\u003ci\u003eFerdinand\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003ci\u003e My wife is a Bella, name’s Donna.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Percival Potato\u003c\/i\u003e, he says, and gives me this big grin like he’s busting open. \u003ci\u003eMad to greet you.\u003c\/i\u003e He’s giving me the eye, so I take it and put it in my wallet right next to the finger someone gave me the day before.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eWe talk a while, have lunch together in the laundromat, then it’s time for me to split. We notice the band’s still going at it so Percy cops a garbage can and heads over to blow some conga drum with them. I walk a mile, catch a camel, and rush to the blood bank. I realize I’ve left all my beaver pelts at home again, so I take off one of my socks (the red one) and give it to the driver. He blows his nose on it, thanks me, and puts it in his lapel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eAt the blood bank Dr. Acid tells me The Leech is dead from overeating. Dr. Acid has three friends: Grass, who’s rooting around in the drawers; Roach, who looks like a leftover; and Big H, who rides a horse—Joint has the bends and is taking the day off. They’re all eating popcorn balls and scraping bits of The Leech off the wall, putting the pieces in a picnic basket that has a place for bottles of wine too. They ask me to stay for a potluck dinner, but I say no. I cop some old commercials with them for a while, then I dive out of the window and swim to my studio. Someone’s dumped Jell-O in the water, and it’s pretty tough going. The crocs are uptight today, but the piranha seem placid enough.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eAt the studio, reverently, I apply the sixty-fifth coat to my \u003ci\u003eSoft Thing\u003c\/i\u003e—four more to go. I’ve carefully calculated the weight of my paint, canvas, medium. The last brush stroke of the sixty-ninth coat, and my painting will fall through the floor. It will be a masterpiece of aesthetic subtlety.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eBy the time I’ve drunk all the turpentine and finished burning the brushes, it’s willy-nilly time to dine. But the lemmings are bad in the hall so I’m late catching my swan and I have to wait on top of the TV antenna for over an hour. Then by the time I get home, the vampires are out. They wave as I pass. Everyone knows you can’t get blood from a Turnip.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI go in and Donna comes up and kisses me and puts her arm around me and tells me she doesn’t love me anymore. I look out the window. Sure enough, the world’s stopped going ’round.\u003cbr\u003e So I go in the john and find my kazoo and I play for a long time.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304764231909,"sku":"NP9781641295543","price":35.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641295543.jpg?v=1767723082","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/bright-segments-the-complete-short-fiction-isbn-9781641295543","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}