DREAD Reviews 17
Dad Reads and Examines Authors While Distracted
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I was going to write a blurb up here mentioning how privileged I feel to be a mentally undamaged writer. I am discovering that this is quite rare.
Then I had an epiphany and deleted the paragraph. I realized I may not be mentally damaged, but I’m certainly mentally challenged, and this amounts to the same thing, does it not?
Why else would I be a soccer referee? You have to be some kind of psychotic mental case to sign up for that sort of emotional and physical abuse in the first place, much less keep at it for 30 years.
Perhaps this (and my half dozen concussions) explain my wildly eccentric tastes. Check out this list of 14 authors I liked:
This compiled rant is funnier than an issue of DREAD. I’m man enough to confess this with more than just a “smidgen of choleric disdain” - in fact, I’m outraged to be so outdone. If you subscribe to me just for the DREAD Reviews newsletter you might as well just smash the subscribe button to this as well. Curse you:
We don't have long on this precious earth, so spend it wisely!
For example: read this emotional, flowing poem's rich and nuanced imagery about a fated meeting with an exciting stranger:
Ohmygawd! I am one of those Californians that moves to Colorado wearing sandals to the ski-rental place. I hit the slopes and I’m, like, contributing! To the Rockies’ valley-girl accented diaspora, yeah?
So like, I just totally binged One Last Run, and it’s so fetch! This dude wakes up from a nightmare that gives serious Michael Bay vibes - cities melting, skies dropping mini-suns, yikes! Then he checks his phone and - you wouldn’t believe it girl - Zurich got, like, for real nuked. Talk about a Monday! That’s, like, not giving!
But does he just mope with a protein bar and cry? No way girl! As if! No, he’s all, “An apocalypse is as good as any reason to ditch the ankle monitor and toke a board while riding a doobie!” LOL. Or maybe it’s the other way around? Same difference - yo, I’m obsessed!
Yeet that SCRAM thingy under that jeep tire boy! For real though - do you think he drives a Jeep Wrangler? That’s kinda hot. Probation? Ew, who has time for that on a Mushroom Monday, amirite? So he’s, like, zooming up I-70 in his Jeep, totally loaded with jerky and canned soup - hello, apocalypse chic! And he’s ready to shred Loveland Pass like it’s his last day on Earth, which, like, it prolly is. One last run > jail time, duh.
The people he meets are more than extra. Starmer’s this total acid-tripping stoner who’s, like, way too obsessed with vibes - down, boy! Something something cosmic black hole, with, like, imaginary buffalo, I dunno, same difference. Let’s talk about Mitch who is totes better, a super chill divorcé dude (hello? Single!) passing the whiskey and weed and being all class. They’re, like, chatting? About the Tibetan Book of the Dead? It sounds so like, spiritual, for realsies, all while the sky’s all red and glowing. I’m, like, screaming inside, but not as bad as they are, prolly - so cool, I’m just here for the ride!
The snowboard run? Ohmygawd, it’s everything, and you should like, read it? You’re carving that powder like a pro, boy! Jumping ramps, dodging trees, all while the world’s going full Hunger Games (ohmygawd - I love Hunger Games). It’s like that playstation game - Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater? And that movie… uh… Mad Max (Mel Gibson used to be so fine, what’s he doing these days?). Anyways, I’m here for it, and then he gets blasted by a bomb falling on Denver. Yo, he, like, totally gets tossed. Like, into the stratosphere. What?! And he’s still totes stoked about his run. If that’s not the most Colorado way to peace out, I don’t know what is!
This story is, like, so iconic! Part apocalypse drama, part stoner soap, and all heart (xoxo)! I hope this bro reincarnates on an alien planet just like he wants, one with wicked slopes and laser buffalo and whatever, same difference. You go boy:
A bucket-helmeted buffoon stumbles into hero status like a toddler running through the marathon break tape. Or: How to bumble your way to a royal title rocking a kitchen appliance. God bless, indeed:
What a glorious peek into Substack’s special downtown dumpster fire. This essay is like a safari through our corner of the net’s swampiest region, spotlighting orange-man-obsessed, ex-mainstream media has-beens churning out prose so predictable you wonder if they might all be offshoring their work to the same China-made LLM ghostwriter. Dan Rather the cuneiform-filing patriarch, Bill Kristol hyping Liz Cheney like she’s Beyoncé, Joy Reid raging like she’s still stuck in a McDonald’s drive-through…
The image of these celebrity grifters parachuting in, clogging the feeds with their sludge while their “paypigs” clap like trained seals… please, someone get Don Lemon a login so he can join the parade:
You know me, I’ll never pass on visceral renderings of murderous geographical entities depicting them not as they are, but as beautiful humans we desperately seek intimacy with. In this particular case not only are we anthropomorphizing the ocean, we're also asking it to engage in some necrophilia-style goodbye sex. Or perhaps not - if we're still talking, are we truly dead? Perhaps it’s more correct to call it thanatophilia this time:
Civilization is a huge mistake, people. Let me explain to you how much you're missing out because you’ll never get eaten alive.
Nature’s out there serving euphoric 5-star dining experiences - a new you, a literal bloody day at the metaphorical spa. Meanwhile you’re a prisoner in your own home - what do you get? Chemo, psych meds, and a long drawn out march to death on a hospital bed (clearly no match for having your entrails stretched out across the grassy savanna, right?). Plus, the movies you want to watch are never on NetFlix - talk about living in literal hell.
It’s well past time to burn it all down. Maybe mankind’s final technological act should be used for good, like, say, banning all tools more complex than fire on a stick and reintroducing terror birds and sabre-tooth tigers to the ecosystem:
Thank you, Darshak, for this beautiful article! I agree and this is how I’d express the same wisdom in my own words: marriage is not a game of Battleship!
It’s seemingly uncommon for two fully functional adults to get married, but it happens. My wife and I are proof of it. A lot of the subject matter in this article covers what I call adulting; like being able to forgive, communicate, and perform thankless tasks. In other words, if you want true love, you must first become lovable and learn to love yourself.
If you want to share forever with someone you must first be capable of independence. I don’t mean “successful,” I just mean you can literally survive on your own and reach contentment in your life without help. You don’t need to be perfect, just complete. If you’re trying to get rescued by someone, it will never happen. It’s much like being stranded at sea and depending on a lifeboat, a lifesaver, or something even less permanent. Love simply doesn’t work this way. Argue with it if you like, but I’ve seen what comes of it. You’re more likely to end up with a shark than a soulmate. This is only half of it, of course - you also must find someone trustworthy and compatible.
This Awesome Human Beings post is beautiful and accurate. The only point I disagree with is the assertion that that a successful relationship has to be hard. Maybe Darshak means there are sacrifices involved - I’d agree in that case. But it’s easy to love my wife. I don’t have to worry about speaking in her stead here - she’d confirm it instantly and she will say the exact same about how easy it is for her to love me back (in between stealing my fries). Our relationship didn’t start utterly easy but we were on the same page and soon confirmed complete loyalty and confidence in each other. We reinforce this engagement with every year that passes.
In our case most of the hard work had been done before we met. We learned how to be decent people first, then met, dated, and got married. Coincidentally, we had a conversation the other day where we confessed even if we started to intensely dislike each other we wouldn’t divorce - our marriage is built on more than intimacy and passion and I daresay even is bigger to us than our friendship. Our marriage is a vow, a guarantee, a point of honor for us both.
I’m like this perhaps because I’m old fashioned and see loyalty as a masculine virtue. She’s like this for similar, if more feminine, angles, with the exception of replacing my “old fashioned” with her good ol’ sappy big heart. If you’d met her you’d know this is more than enough. If we have difficulty decades down the road like this article insists we must, one of us indeed would carry the relationship for the other, forever if need be. We are faithful to each other’s memories as much as we are each other’s futures. No, we don’t plan to go out on a burning ship if one of us dies before the other - we already decided we’d remarry if the worst happened - especially if our children still live at home.
We’re two people who could survive solo but choose to team up for the ultimate adventure: a loyal companion till the end and a house full of chaotic, beautiful kids. Sure, there are sacrifices - like when I give up my cherished regular naptime to assemble a kid’s power wheels that comes with instructions written by a sadist. All costs we pay are shared - and at the same time we make it a point not to keep score or ask whose turn it is. Instead we promise to always give our best. We vow to be open, accommodating, and to always push in the same direction:
"The Dead Druid's Cave" is equal parts thrilling and "WTF?" Eachann and Connor are the Gaelic equivalent of a buddy-cop flick where one’s a smirking tartan enthusiast and the other’s a horned Fer Bolg with a club and a grudge. Their banter is top-notch, with Eachann trying to chat over a storm and Connor staring at the cave ceiling like he’s scrolling TikTok. The cave itself wouldn’t be complete - or Gaelic enough - without the creepy, moldy druid skeleton sitting in the corner.
Eachann, in a moment of midnight gratitude, decides to thank the skeleton and Poof! He’s gone courtesy of a magical moonbeam/budget time machine. Connor wakes and realizes his pal’s AWOL and goes Hulk, threatening the skeleton - and poof - Connor’s zapped as well, sent to a time where the skeleton’s a not-quite-living mummified druid who looks like she’s been on a five-century juice cleanse.
Here’s where the storytelling shines. The druid starts speaking all cryptic and I’ll translate: “Oh yeah, your buddy Eachann was here decades ago or whatever. He’s a hero now.” Connor’s left sprinting through a post-apocalyptic dusty Scotland clutching his friend’s tartan like a security blanket. The description of Connor sweating and crunching through a field of dead grass gets so vivid I wiped my brow and I swear I can feel a rock in my shoe.
Connor finally finds his strapping BFF has become a grey-bearded grandpa decaying near a fire looking like he’s one cough away from the great beyond. Eachann’s gone and aged like a fine whisky, while Connor’s still out here, club in hand, wandering in like he missed Friday’s memo. The mysterious Gaelic lady who guides Connor proves extremely helpful this moment popping up to tell him: “Yeah, your friend’s old now, deal with it,” before fading into the shadows like every creepy magical skeleton lady does.
I had one gripe - the story’s short and leaves me unsatisfied. What’s the druid’s deal? Is the moonbeam on a schedule, did we forget to check the delays and departures chart? Can I sign up for a cave that time-travels me past the default on my student loans? Fortunately for us there’s more adventures one can read about these two and they can be found in the link below:
Alt Mundi: Azoria - Chapter 1: The Reckoning - what gloriously chaotic plunge into a fantasy word salad! It’s like the author took a portal to another world, stole a dictionary, then brought it home to put it in a blender - Clann Dúmnon, Caevàl, Wyrds, Doriànni, Adelanti, Halvening, Ghost-Mire Toad, Lamnebh Way, Kaernant, Dawnwards, Pendabhon, Blue Maru, - and don’t forget the Bear-Spear and street sword (because regular spears and swords are so last season). I half-expected a pop quiz at the end. At one point my brain begged for a glossary or maybe just a breather between “Ker-Caevàl” and “Weeping Cliff” - could I find my place in Loser’s Lane somewhere there?
But the imagery! When Ker-Caevàl’s shingles are “curling back” and embers are “spiralling into the night sky,” I’m right there with them smelling the smoke and feeling the heat. The visceral punch of Néit’s home burning to cinders while he’s stuck dodging cutpurses (nippers?) and Dark-Maw Rats (seriously, what are those?). I can practically taste the ale at the tavern scene and hear the “Way Teller’s” smug grin as he spins his tale. It’s gritty, it’s alive, it’s like the story’s grabbing you by the collar and yelling, “Feel this!” I might be wading through a swamp of terminology and overzealous details, but dang it if those visuals don’t make me want to keep slogging through to see what’s next. And the exchanges between the two main characters - stoic warrior and street-smart loudmouth - are charming enough to enjoy the ride and take the author’s word for it that the Tongue is between the Sea Witch and the Weeping Cliff.
I know some of you are readers who like your world rich and meaty and just haven’t discovered that one guy who packs so much details you need to bookmark the glossary and laminate the map - well, now you found him! Go over here and hit subscribe:
Ah, the poor Byzantines… I mean, Eastern Romans… I mean, Romans, but not the Roman Romans… The Greek-speaking, non-pagan, brick-and-mosaic Romans who aren’t half as cool in movies.
I’m kidding, these guys actually kick butt, and they don’t get half the attention they deserve. M.S. Olney agrees with me, and “The Forgotten Shield” reminds us that the Eastern Roman Empire, sometimes called Byzantium, was the West’s unpaid bouncer for a millennium. Olney paints a vivid picture of Constantinople as Christendom’s beefy shield, absorbing blow after blow from Umayyad sieges and Seljuk invasions while Western Europe was busy figuring out how to not trip over its own feudal feet. The core argument is that without Byzantium’s thousand-year stand, the West might’ve been reciting the Quran before it could even spell “Renaissance.”
He details how the Byzantines held off the 7th-century Islamic storm with clever tactics and a dash of flamethrower secret sauce. The article paints a big picture: Byzantium wasn’t just fighting for itself, but for all the West, buying the greater portion of Europe centuries to get its act together from the Dark Ages to the gunpowder-packing 15th century.
Alas, we must include the most Byzantine feature of, well, the Byzantines… one tiny fact that, hilariously, gave the current meaning to the word “Byzantine.” While the Eastern Romans were yeeting invaders from the south and southeast, they had a… let’s call it “creative” strategy for northeastern raiders. Vikings, Huns, or a plethora of Balkan or multitudinous other steppe nomads knocking at Constantinople’s gates? No problem! The Byzantines would just toss them a hefty sack of gold, give a friendly wave, and say, “Buy yourself fifty thousand suits of fancy weapons and armor and go burn down Rome or Paris, you stunning champs!” Olney doesn’t dwell on this in his article, but let’s be real about peak Byzantine shade: protect ourselves by smashing one threat while idly bankrolling the other. Meh, this is how you keep those filthy Italics and Franks down in the muck, right? Talk about playing 4D chess - I mean, ultimately, all those guys in the sunset regions are barbarians to begin with, so they might as well stay that way!
Don’t get me wrong, I love this article. There’s no doubt without Eastern Rome we’d all be speaking Arabic and as much is owed to the builders of the Hagia Sophia as is due to Charlemagne or the Reconquista. But just like how the West picks and chooses what to take from the Arab world - their numbering systems, but not their language - Olney’s enthusiasm may engage in a bit of glossing over Byzantium’s own cherry picking - like, say, their knack for putting up a valiant fight against Islam one day while allying with them the next (Manuel I Komnenos, Michael VIII Palaiologos, and Alexios I Komnenos all shared military intelligence with various Islamic powers to help destroy crusader armies and kingdoms, just to name a few). And as often as Byzantium conquered barbarians, they also greased the palms of those godless roving bands of murderers from the steppes or the icy north. And finally, let’s not skip the best story of them all - that one time the Romanoi got on the bad side of their Crusader “allies” in 1204 when they forgot to pay the knights for reinstating Alexios to the throne. Centuries of bad blood between the two biggest flavors of Christianity reached a head that day culminating in the sack of Constantinople not by Islam, but by Westerners.
When it came to the Byzantines there was a certain thing that always came first - even before religion - and that’s realpolitik. A touch more nuance on the empire’s messier moments would’ve made their story juicer and more relatable, in my opinion, but my wish is akin to taking your favorite book or movie and wishing it was simply longer.
The Forgotten Shield is a love letter to an empire that deserves way more than its current footnote-status in Western history. It’s a quick, witty read that’ll make you want to toast Constantinople with a goblet of spiced wine - while politely dodging the attention of those gold-fueled raiders on your way to the head of the table:
Dear James,
Like normal bikinis, chainmail bikinis are not interesting for what they conceal, but by what they reveal.
Alas, for true understanding, the chainmail bikini must be exposed to repeated assault by medieval weapons until their inevitable structural failure. This is an important part of the heroine’s developmental character arc called the re-link-quishment - she comes back from this misfortune, but will never be the same (she might turn shy and wear something thicker, or switch to a bloodsoaked white t-shirt, or just paint her chest blue like a crazed barbarian from thereon).
I find this self-evident, but felt happy to explain.
Your friend,
Derek Kritzberg:
Radicaledward’s "The Infinite Library" is a sword & sorcery short story and a grimdark fever dream where our hero takes a trip up the Eternal Pillar and ends up with a face full of black goop and a therapy session with a grotesque spider-librarian.
Vinshya, a god-eating warrior-lovechild of Conan the Barbarian and a goth who took “eat the rich” literally as a kid. She stumbles into a town built from Godzilla-sized bones, puking black sludge, looking like someone who stumbled out of a mosh pit at a concert performing the Chaos God Nurgle’s favorite rock songs. Her journey to the Eternal Pillar, a glass skyscraper that’s part library and part existential crisis is a masterclass in “Ew! Please tell me more!”
The prose is thick as Vinshya’s black vomit (sorry for that visual), dripping with poetic grit. Lines like “the road became a black glistening spine polished smooth by centuries of feet” are vivid enough you might be spraying your imagination with Lysol later. It might contain more usage of “black” than a goth teen’s wardrobe, but it’s got more than enough sword & sorcery swagger to earn it forgiveness. The world-building - bone-houses, stairs that slurp up sound - is a feature, not a sideshow.
The real star of this spooky show is Keeper; a bone-white and three-armed spider-dude with eyes like expired mustard, speaking like a choir of cryptic poets and moving like a marionette with a hangover. Keeper is the librarian of this cosmic house of horrors and knowledge. Let me tell you: if Keeper ran my local library, I’d always return my books on time. I was pleasantly surprised that instead of getting chopped to bits, this horror-spider instead roasts Vinshya alive with psychoanalytical banter, calling her a monster for snacking on gods. Vinshya essentially mutters: “Rude but fair” then gets tossed like a rowdy bar patron.
The story’s pacing is a bit like climbing those endless yrwood stairs, thrilling but somewhat dizzying. And the philosophical chitchat is deep enough to merit a snorkel. But the payoff is worth it - Keeper’s prophecy “LOL grill u mesd up” about Vinshya’s doomed god-munching life is delivered with a chill. The ending, with Vinshya napping on the stairs and clutching her sword like a teddy bear is oddly adorable for a story about a divine cannibal.
Thematically it’s heavy with guilt, hubris, and the end of knowledge. Vinshya’s dream of standing on a pile of rotting gods is a certain kind of nightmare. I wanted more information about why Vinshya’s chowing down on deities - is this a viral TikTok trend in this world? A profitable side hustle? C’mon, throw me a bone (heheh). Fortunately it looks like it’s related to another story, so go check it out!
I find this short to be gem at blending grotesque imagery, snappy banter, and a world so weird I want to visit it again (with a gas mask next time):
My top spot this issue can be found in the ruins of Thunder Vale, or beneath them maybe, at the bottom of a rubble pile, you know, where every top spot belongs. I don’t know how QuestionablePenmanship only has such a small audience (8 subscribers at time of publishing), maybe he just started, but he deserves way more.
Read this and let this author take you through a demon-vaporizing Disneyland. I just finished it and and I’m still flossing the grit from my teeth! This story is one blood-soaked adventure through a fantastical city under siege. Its visceral charm made me want to strap on some armor and join the fray with a crossbow, and maybe even share a flask of that hooch a certain undead champion chugs between bouts of laying evil demons flat.
Chapel of Chains starts in Thunder’s Vale, a war-torn hellscape where every corner reeks of sweat, dust, and the kind of existential dread that only comes when demon guts rain down on you from the sky. The Sergeant and his ragtag crew - mercenaries, Arcadian soldiers, hobgoblins, a liquor-loving infernal knight, and paladins who probably pray nightly for a shower - are so battered and beleaguered you can practically hear their bones creak with every swing. Yet they keep slashing, stabbing, and snarking - the sky is falling and the city is ruins but that’s no reason to let your sassy edge go dull. The action scenes are crunchy carnage including grunts and oaths so real you might flinch at the next strike. It’s got a realistic flow to the combat - fighters square off before launching quick and brutal exchanges, a perfect, haunting mix of Saving Private Ryan and D&D.
Each scene pops like a grimdark graphic novel, from the “aquamarine fire of dusk” to the rain-soaked funeral rites where silk’s got nothing on the comfort of a muddy shroud. And don’t get me started on the visions of a prehistoric Vale with insect-like structures and a goddess-sized warrior lady - its not so much world building as it is a psychedelic history lesson. The ruined city is painted on the page with finesse.
But Rattles, the undead character, steals the show. Who or what is this strange war-machine? Moving like a marionette, it casually chugs booze and flicks quarrels like it’s auditioning for The Matrix. The other good guys have no clue why it’s helping them or why it speaks their foe’s language. Every paragraph dangles a new question wrapped in just enough cryptic lore to keep you hooked and distracting you from the horror of feeling like you’ll need a PhD in fantasy geopolitics. Rattles’ visions of a lost Sidonis before it went full Abyssal Rift are like catnip for made-up history nerds and I’m already itching for future parts to see if this undead is a hero, a sneaky villain, or has just never heard the word “retirement.”
Chapel of Chains is a gritty, gorgeous gut-punch of a story that’ll leave you marveling at its visuals and cheering for its battle-weary heroes. If that’s not enough, read it just to develop your conspiracy theory about the real location of Rattles’ liquor stash:
And finally my self-promotion:
You all know Nyl. And if you don’t, just picture a demigod forged for battle who has no clue how hot she is (is the second part relevant? No, at least not until it gets a movie adaptation).
In this latest episode she wakes up in a cryotube shivering like a popsicle and clutching a blanket like it’s her last shred of dignity. A scientist named Hanno tosses her a scalpel and says, “Pirates knock’n’, time to dance!” From slaying dragons on horseback to dangling upside-down with a knife in her teeth, now Nyl’s about to carve her way through a freighter full of goons with guns - only to learn the real enemy is a pair of cruise missiles with her name on them.
Please enjoy Bellageist: Chains of a Demigod Part 7 - a surreal world of gritty, realistic combat where the odds are grim, the deadliest weapon on the field is the man (woman), and Nyl’s still wondering why her life feels like a cosmic reality show:
Thanks for reading!
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Happy to explain, happy to be explained to XD (also: you need to write this into Nyl's story now)
Thanks for the totally wicked review, it really shredded!