FRACASSI JUNKIE'S INTRODUCTION
RONALD MALFI
MY RECOLLECTION, OFTEN KNOWN FOR being hazy, is that sometime in the swamp-thick spring of 2016, our hero—me, in other words—began an online discussion about all things writing with an author who had, at the time, penned a bit of dark fiction, as well as a Christmas movie featuring talking puppies. Without having ever met in person, I found a kinship with Philip Fracassi—an appreciation for his art, process, concerns, and achievements—and our online discussions continue to this day.
I remember I was in Florida at the time we battered around our first few missives, finishing up a manuscript while taking in some of the local color; earlier that day, I’d witnessed a large Ford pickup truck barrel down the road, expelling clouds of black diesel exhaust and inadvertently run over an alligator. It left me feeling dirty, so I sought out a watering hole for refuge, as one does. That evening, Philip and I commenced our discussion through one of the more fashionable messenger apps of our time while I sat at a tiki bar that seemed to double as a laundromat, sipping vodka tonics and trying to avoid the perilous stares of both the octogenarian prostitute across the bar and the dim-eyed fellow near the pool tables whose solitary gold incisor gleamed each time one corner of his mouth tugged upward in a wry simulacrum of a smile.
I had just watched a movie Philip had written that had come out the year before, Girl Missing, and he had similarly read and then given to his then-girlfriend a copy of my novel, Little Girls. Mind you, this was more than just two young, handsome, talented men with girls on the brain: Philip explained to me the process by which he’d written the screenplay for the film, the pages he’d had to cut, the limitations imposed upon him by a small budget. I was impressed with his success even in the face of the frustration I could tell Philip felt on occasion with the industry—both Hollywood and the publishing world alike.
The two things that struck me most during these conversations were Philip’s evident passion for the art of writing and his undeniable talent. I read some of his other work soon after we began our chats, each edition graciously mailed to my home, usually with a friendly note, by the author himself. (I recall the wholly meta experience of reading his wonderful novella Altar, about a swimming pool scenario straight out of hell, while I was sunning my own damn self at my neighborhood pool.) His short story collections, Behold the Void and Beneath a Pale Sky, came next, and I devoured both of those books, then immediately re-engaged with him:
“I need more, Philip,” I begged suddenly becoming this Fracassi junkie, this prose-crazed, itchy-skinned ghoul salivating at the thought of more words arriving unbidden in my mailbox. “What else have you got coming out? Tell me, tell me ….”
He had novels coming out. Soon, maybe? Someday? Novels he’d been toiling away on. Things in the works, things in the air, things upon things, beneath things inside things.
One of the biggest perks of being an author—or, more accurately, of being friends with an author—is that you tend to receive advanced reader copies (ARCs) of books well before their publication date. If you’re a bibliophile like I am, it’s like George Lucas inviting you to a private screening of Star Wars before it ever hits theaters. Over the past year or so, I received a three-punch knockout of ARCs from Philip and his publishers—Boys in the Valley, Gothic, and A Child Alone with Strangers. To choose a favorite among them is impossible. And while each is vastly different, they are all marked by Philip’s assured and artful approach. His characters are real people, his prose is unapologetically aesthetic, and the astute reader can sense a sense of care coming right off the pages. I knew without a doubt that I saw a glimpse of the future—Philip Fracassi would flat-out own horror publishing in the next year.
I was on a high.
Philip was on a high.
(The shady character with a gold incisor lurking about the pool tables was certainly high.)
Then, in August of 2022, I received an email from Philip asking if I would read and write an introduction to a new short story collection scheduled for publication the following year. For the uninitiated, this is a big ask. Usually, you have your publisher do the dirty work, but Philip and I were friends...and in all honesty, it wasn’t a big ask. I was honored, and I agreed to write the intro.
Then things happened. What was it John Lennon said? Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans? I was working on a book of my own, trying to tie up loose ends on some other creative projects, and yet, in the far recesses of my brain, I knew there was a clock ticking.
I went to dig out Philip’s manuscript, only to realize I couldn’t locate it. Had it gotten lost among the slew of manuscripts I had spread out all over my office? Had I somehow misplaced it? Had the whole thing been a lucid dream and this was all in my head?
For convenience’s sake, most manuscripts are sent as attachments to emails, so I searched my inbox but couldn’t find it. I then dug through my spam folder, wading through a swamp of emails from the likes of Pippins D. Shrinkage, Sloot van Sloot, Michael Jerkssen, and whisking past subject lines that expressed great concern for both my sex drive as well as my vehicle’s extended warranty.
There was no manuscript.
There was no—
Okay, look, you’re holding the book in your hands, and you’re reading my introduction right now, so I’ll kill the suspense. Clearly, things worked out in the end. I hadn’t misplaced it; Philip just hadn’t sent it yet. He was still tooling away. Perfectionist, I thought, somewhat covetously. Thanks for making me think I’d lost my mind. Go on and write, you glorious bastard.
I received the manuscript on the first day of a strangely mild February here in Maryland and spent the next several nights languishing in the vast array of stories Philip Fracassi was so … let’s say, generous...to provide.
So here we are. That aforementioned passion and talent? This is what I’m talking about; it’s here in spades. If this is your first experience with Philip’s work, then be prepared to turn into that self-confessed Fracassi junkie that I, too, have become. Some introductions like speaking to specific stories, but what’s the point? You’ll read them; you don’t need me to dissect them. I will, however, instruct you to brace yourself because Philip is not afraid to take you anywhere he wants to go—into the literal mind of a haunted house, into a post-pop-techno-noir (trademark pending) world of a Chandler-esque sleuth, into the unsettling nightmare of a child’s seemingly innocuous birthday wish.
You’re in it now, riding the high that is the powerhouse fiction of Philip Fracassi. So be forewarned ….
In this book, no one is safe.
—Ronald Malfi
Annapolis, MD
April 2023
THE WISH
6
THE CLOWN WAS TWISTING A long blue balloon when I heard the crash. His face had jerked to the side, alarmed. After a moment he looked back to us, gave a weak smile. The other kids and I ignored the sound, intent on the clown’s white-gloved hands, waiting for the miracle of creation.
“Well, I … okay …” he said, his normally booming voice subdued and hesitant. To his credit, he went back to the balloon with vigor, red curls bobbing, diamond-painted eyes intent.
