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eBook Category: Science Fiction/Horror
eBook Description: The masques of 17th century Europe presented dramatic entertainments based on mythic themes and enhanced by lavish costumes and sets. The entertainments in Bruce Boston's Masque of Dreams fashion myths of their own and are enhanced by the voice of a poet, often lyric and at times pyrotechnic. Journey to the depths of a mutant rain forest that strikes back against the encroachments of civilization. Join a Victorian stage magician in his search for real magic. Descend to the depths of an omnivorous singularity where everything is everything. Meet a true gentleman farmer and stand with vorpal sword in hand. Explore these masques of illusion and identity that entertain as they mine the limits of reality and dreams.

eBook Publisher: Wildside Press, Published: 2001
Fictionwise Release Date: February 2002

24 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [364 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [272 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [321 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.1 MB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [365 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [288 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [367 KB] , hiebook (KML) [785 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [500 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [301 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [374 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [426 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [492 KB]
Words: 107937
Reading time: 308-431 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"It is rare to find a writer capable of writing both prose and poetry with equal skill, and in the SF/F/H genres there is no greater practitioner of that combination than Bruce Boston ... having a firm grasp of the power of language, the ability to choose the perfect phrase, and a sense of the delicate balance between image and meaning ... Masque of Dreams collects some of the best work from the past 25 years of Boston's career, including 24 stories and 14 poems.... Boston is bound by no particular genre or tone ... has a great talent for richly evoking a place in time ... a gift for creating memorable characters.... The stories and poems have in common Boston's well-trained poet's eye for detail, his beautifully crafted language, and his unfailing compassion for his characters. This collection is an indispensable compendium of this underappreciated, multi-talented writer's best work, and is sure to leave readers dazzled by the depth and range of his talents."--Tim Pratt, Locus

"... the poet in Boston aligns with the storyteller to create one evocative scene after another ... awesome talents ... writes like a demon with a stained glass hand."--Paul Di Filippo, Asimov's Science Fiction

"... uncommon grace and clarity of vision. Boston writes with the voice of a poet, the heart of a bodhisattva, and the unblinking eye of an investigative reporter."--Daniel Marcus, Wired

"...Boston's words dance along most surfaces with a silly clarity reminiscent of Lolita author Vladmir Nabokov. When Boston burrows deep, it's magic."--Evelyn Pine, Artbeat

"Imagine if you dare Ted Sturgeonesque compassion, the needle wit of Frederic Brown, and the shockingly precise word usage of a truly skilled poet all blended seamlessly into a single (and singularly beguiling) artist's work."--Jim Lee, Scavenger's Newsletter

"From fantasy to slapstick to murder ... his characters and scenes are drawn precisely ... voluptuous language and good old storytelling."--Rod Tulloss, Small Press Review

"Boston is deft and quirky. He is also gifted with a distinctive way of seeing the 'other' ... it is the best of the classics he brings to mind."--Tom Easton, Analog

Soldier, Sailor Death is as ordinary and natural as any event, and murder hardly less so. If I kill a man in the woods there is no need for the city to know. My long stride carries me far through the breadth of the night and by sunrise there is no longer moss beneath my feet but the fog-slickened cobbles of a port metropolis. I make my way past the shuttered morning houses and dead shop windows, down to the harbor and along the wooden quays. I pitch my country cap at a jaunty angle and walk with a roll upon the balls of my feet. The seasoned boards creak beneath. The salty dawn braces my lungs as I survey the resting ships. Making my way back to the town proper I find a sailors' bar and there I drink my beer.

And what of the woods?

I have never been to the woods. Now I am a sailor with the bristle of sea air still spiking each exhalation of my breath. That is my ship moored in the harbor. The Queen Marie, that white beauty with the polished silver scuppers and the tall masts pitched to the line of her movement. That streamlined beauty, a proud ship to serve and I have served her well to earn my space of rest from the wave roar and water roll which have limited the dimensions of my movements for months. The country? The woods? Yes, perhaps I would like to go someday, yet I am a sailor and my seaworthy feet might feel ill at ease with nothing but the morose solidity of the land unfolding from them in all directions as far as my spyglass could see. My hands would no doubt grow restless with no ropes to hold. Those hardy broad-beamed country girls would seem strange pale creatures to me after the learned and desolate women of these port cities. And now I have snuffed out two consciousnesses in those woods, that other and my own past self.