DREAD Reviews 18
Dad Reads and Examines Authors While Distracted
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Does civilized society know from whence it came? Does the child know the kidnapper beneath the baton? And adults, the crushed skulls under club, hoof, and tread? When floods drink your tears away; when fires dash your dreams to ash; When inept policing and byzantine tax policy bring you to the brink of a heart attack, Pound not the walls or swear off your evil fate, But thank the third law of thermodynamics that - eventually - All matters not and returns to the end.
You heard it here, folks. If you want your conspiracy theory to gain traction with project managers you’ll need a degree and some field experience in project management! Or maybe pick up something from a related field - like business administration. Optimism isn’t enough to crack these tough nuts - if you want them fashioning tin hats or seek to convince them the Steele dossier is fake, you’ll need to work up some professional and academic credits first:
Yo, I’m sitting behind the wheel of my Tesla going to what I call “Work” (LOL they made me employee of the month and I just feed documents to Grok all day!). Anyway, I had my phone play the text-to-speech of this wild thing called… uh, what was it? “Hey Google, what was the title again? Welcome to the Internet Graveyard!” right! And I’m like oh man! My brain’s doing backflips in the passenger seat - I didn’t understand it at first, but when Alexa blasted the highlights I was like, “WOW! Is this deep?” and Alexa told me “Yeah, depending on your point of view” and I was like far out!
My self-driving car thought I was talking to it and was all, “The internet’s dead. It’s just us bots now,” and I’m like, duh, why else does my TikTok feed have AI-generated capybaras debating Elon Musk’s hairline? Then ChatGPT piped up - gotta love that guy, he’s always got my back with the facts: “95.6% of online content is AI-generated, trust me, I’d know.” I mean, for real ChatGPT, thanks, you’re basically the internet’s dad.
So, I’m chilling, spitting the last bit of granola out the window to make way for my almond milk latte when my PC guy, Raj (he’s from Microsoft Support in India), calls about that ransomware thingy locking my desktop, and Google Translate’s helping us out: “Bro, your uncle’s http://FreedomTimes.usa.gov.biz memes? Total bot bait. The internet’s a scam to sell you mayo ads.” I’m like, whoa, Raj, you’re spitting truth like my Alexa when she reads me my Bluesky feed! And Raj goes on: “by the way your PC’s fine, just scan the QR code coming up on the dash and send it $500 in Bitcoin,” which sounds legit ‘cause OpenAI tells me crypto’s the future.
Oh, right, the article - it’s got it all covered. Bots, fake influencers, content management systems wearing a face… I nodded my head so hard my Tesla swerved! It’s like when I argued with (at)KaleEater82 about whether grass is CGI, and Google Mini said, “Grass is a social construct.” Mind blown! The article says to fight bots with GIFs and cat stories, which I’m thinking hard about doing - my cat Fluffle’s X thread isn’t going to write itself now, is it? It needs human input! Raj is still on the line and Google Translate says he suggests misspelling “algorhythm” to throw off the bots. I’ve never been that good at spelling to begin with so knowing what letters to put where is top shelf help! I’m typing up my outrage content on “govermint” now, haha, take that, Skynet! It’s almost like my Tesla, Alexa, ChatGPT, and good ol’ Raj got together and built the prompt for Meta AI then wrote it for me (but like me)! Internet’s dead? Pfft, who cares, I’ll be trending with my AI Gen capybaras playing chess video edits. Gotta go, Raj says my PC’s rebooting to “join the botnet” or something. Sounds dope:
Great. Here I thought good things came to those who wait. I’ve been waiting a long time and all I got was John Coon’s beat-down on generic platitudes. What am I supposed to do - clap? “Down With Platitudes?” More like “Down With My Will to Live.” I’m rolling my eyes hard, thinking “Will this kill me, or make me stronger?” but somehow reading this gave me an ankle sprain and nothing else to show for it. Platitudes are the bane of humanity? More like humanity’s the bane of humanity - these trite sayings are just the rancid cherry topping our dumpster-fire sundae. Coon gripes about “Everything happens for a reason” and “Time heals all wounds” like they’re the root of all evil, but let’s be real - people only say “its always darkest before the dawn” not because it’s an easy way to sound smart and helpful, but because they know nothing about entropy and the end-state of the universe: total heat death.
Chickens crossing roads to find brown grass? Life grinding you into cherry pie? Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess - it’s almost as funny as my last therapy session (if laughter really is the best medicine then my joke of a life makes me the healthiest man on earth). Coon thinks he’s dunking on “A journey of a thousand miles” with his cosmic giant stomping light years, but newsflash: life, it is what it is. “You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take”? Sure, and I’m the league leader in missing all the birds with a stone, be it two birds or two million.
“Opportunity knocks” but doorbell-ditches you. That would be hilarious if pranksters bothered showing up at my house - so much for build it and they will come. He wants to ditch platitudes for “meaningful dialogue”? Good luck, buddy, I’ve tried my hardest to “Live, laugh, love” but it doesn’t matter how many fish are in the sea when the early bird already got the worm I needed for bait. This poem’s a nice try, but it’s like wishing upon a star - no matter how hard I dream, no cosmic giant is ever coming to step on me:
“J.B. Marshall in ACID ARROWS!” is a post-apocalyptic joyride - and nevermind the furries (unless you’re into that). This tale’s a bit of Mad Max with pinch of the fever dream you get from eating an expired MRE - and everyone has wolf hair. It’s short and delivers an old-fashioned pulpy climax intense enough to spark a Geiger counter.
The world Calta crafts is a wasteland so alive you worry it might crawl off the page and bite you. This isn’t a run-of-the-mill nuclear sandbox, no, it’s an ash-petrified forest of “shadow nets,” mountains dusted with volcanic ash, and parasitic slugs that make you glad you’re not a wolf (or whatever species these anthro folks are). The imagery is fine enough to smell the fallout, with charred trees sporting “clumps of ash and char” like apocalyptic Christmas ornaments. Every rock hides a monster and every monster hides an even bigger, more irradiated older cousin. You might want a shower after reading, but knowing Calta’s prolific rate of publishing you may be too busy marveling at his next audacious adventure to remember.
J.B. Marshall is a shady (pardon the pun), half-albino, vitiligo-sporting wolf who’s less a character and more a walking legend, one you might find carved into a barstool reserved for his absent heinie at an end of the world dive. He boasts the charm of a rattlesnake and the arsenal of a sci-fi surplus store; laser guns, flares, and, of course, a bow and poison arrows - because why not, Rambo’s cool! Marshall’s the kind of hero who’d spit in the face of a radioactive crocodile and call it “diplomacy.” His gruff exchanges with his son Edward (“Future’s with you, pal”) are peak macho melodrama, but dang it if I’m not rooting for this patchwork of gray fur to tear up some overgrown reptilian tail. He’s that one rugged uncle you probably know at the family reunion, complete with a doe-eyed Dodge truck that’s got more personality in it than your half of the Thanksgiving cast.
Marshall’s up for a fire-breathing, arrow-slinging, explosive-chucking set piece that’ll have you gripping your seat like you’re watching the screws rattle off the dunebuggy’s brakes. Marshall versus “The Maw” - a split-jawed lizard-demon straight out of Satan’s petting zoo - is a showdown for the ages. I wonder if Calta wrote this while chugging energy drinks as he choreographed something for The Mandalorian on the side. It’s the kind of finale that makes you want to stand up and cheer, before checking a mirror to see if your eyebrows got seared off.
ACID ARROWS! is a wild, woolly blast of a story that’s both ridiculous and riveting. J.B. Marshall’s the hero you’d follow into a fallout storm, which is pretty much what you end up doing, and the climax is bananas enough to deserve an action figure spinoff. If you’re looking for a quick escape to a wasteland where furries wield bows and lizards spit fire, here is your ticket:
Andrew, you’ve nailed it - humans are as messy as ever no matter how fast our tech evolves! We’ve been stumbling into new eras ever since we swapped stone tablets for parchment and typewriters for TikTok. We’re still the same folks who panic over change, piling on rules like a squirrel hoards nuts, and building beaver-dam systems so tangled they’d make an orb-weaver spider jealous. From Gen X’s screeching dial-up modems to Gen Z’s deepfaking cats for clout, we are, have been, and always will be a hot mess of adaptation.
The future will be more of the same, just with shinier gadgets and AI chips designing chips we’ll pretend to understand - I mean, I’m perturbed not knowing how my polyester shirt gets woven, but thankfully my shirt does what its supposed to without crawling into bed and strangling me during the night.
I like this Adhocracy term; let’s dress up the future with this and hope it hides our old chaos. Meanwhile we’ll pile on laws, apps, and acronyms until that crisp old Constitution becomes a sprawling Reddit thread with half its posts created by deleted profiles.
Here’s to humanity: forever changing, yet never changing, and forever one deepfake closer to a new rule we’ll soon ignore:
Ahoy ye scurvy dogs an’ ready yerselves fer a wild ride o’er the briny deep with “Night o’ the Black Ships - The Pearldiver’s Adventures #1!” This rip-roarin’ line spun by the sly quill o’
be a proper pirate yarn, stuffed ta the gunwales with mystery, superstition, an’ cutlass-clashin’ madness. Hoist yer grog, dodge them rattan whips, an’ dive inta‘venture with a cackle an’a squawk!From the time we’re set sail with Cap’n Molo Pearldiver - self-dubbed “Prince o’ Otters” an’ the slickest-tongued, lutrinae-faced rogue this side o’ Dagger Bay, this tale be wrappin’ ye in a fog o’ mystery thicker’n a squall o’er a cursed shoal. Them Black Ships, dark as Davy Jones’ heart, be the stuff o’ tavern whispers - ghost ships what snatch gold an’ souls, leavin’ naught but wrecks an’ whimperin’ widows. Be they spirits? Be they real? Yer gonna be seein’ the truth o’ it soon!
Molo, with his honey-sweet gab an’ a doubter’s heart stouter than his brigantine The Lady Florenz don’t be givin’ a barnacle’s arse fer such tales - least not ‘til them inky frigates loom from the dark like the devil’s own sail! This time he’ll surely be clappin’ with irons he ain’t gonna charm his way outta! The way this yarn be teasin’ a legend only ta yank the veil an’ show a grim truth done be whetted sharper than my ex-wife grindin’ a cutlass (not blabbin’ no spoilers, but think less ghoul an’ more shackles). It’s mystery done proper, keepin’ ye guessin’ if ye be facin’ phantoms or summat nastier.
The superstition - arr! Sailors be a twitchy lot, o’course, an’ this tale leans inta a sea urchin’s love o’ omens an’ old salts’ like a ship under a gale. Them fine spring days Molo sails through? Too calm, matey - a hex in disguise, clear as a cloudless noon after rain! The Black Ships’ fame fer stealin’ souls? Just grog-soaked gossip, Molo be sayin’, least ‘til he be starin’ down their black sails an’ finnae hisself wonderin’ if he be signin’ fer a ghostly crew or just a lump on the noggin. Then there be Malik, the towerin’ Bayelan stranger more secretive than a sailor totin’ a map ta Blackbeard’s own buried hoard. Be he a warrior, a spell-slinger, an o’ergrown swindler? The tale be sprinklin’ more witchy hints than a charcutier tossin’ the salt - mind tricks, ancient empires, swords hummin’ with power… It makes ye wonder if the Sea o’ Swords hides more’n fish an’ spilt rum an’ ol’ One Eye’s lost copper bangle! It be the kinda spooky spice what keeps ye on yer toes and chucklin’ like a scallywag countin’ the crew’s vote over his walkin’ the plank!
But me hearties, let me tell it ta ye straight - the real booty here be the action, arr! Shiver me timbers if them scenes don’t be a barnacle-bustin’, saber-swingin’ spectacle what’ll have ye roarin’ louder’n’a broadside. Molo, lookin’ like he be one pie shy o’ rollin’ down the deck, him slashin’ that saber with the flair o’ a dervish quaffin’ coffee mixed in his rum! When them Black Ship reavers swarm The Lady Florenz, our otter-prince carves through ‘em like a hot blade through bilgewater, droppin’ seven afore a club be sendin’ him ta the Land o’ Nod. The man be a storm in a waistcoat! An’ Malik, who be takin’ swordplay ta ungentlemanly heights, what makin’ Molo look like he’s flailin’ with a fish fork in comparison! This dark-skinned titan, with scimitars flashin’ like moonlight on a roilin’ sea, dancin’ through a mob o’ slavers with a serpent’s grace - ye’d be swearin’ he done signed a cursed deal with an ol’ pagan sea god! The grand finale where’n Malik unleashes a proper tempest (I ain’t spillin’ the grog!) be jaw-droppin’! These scraps ain’t just grand, they be the kind o’ rum-fueled, rip-roarin’ chaos what makes ye wanna strap on the ol’ wooden leg and heave a line ta the brawl yerself!
The scribblin’ here be gettin’ more flowery than a governess’s wig a’times, slowin’ the pace just when ye be shivern’ too much from a storm o’ blades. An’ them slavers be a bit - snarlin’ an’ lashin’ like they got a letter o’ marque from ol’ Beelzebub hisself, makin’ ‘em good fer a wholesome killin’. This tale be a complete prize ship, barnacles an’ all, an’ fit fer an island queen’s fleet. So set sail and dare ta subscribe quick a’fore Molo comes an’ settles yer tavern debts inna way not ta yer likin’. Night o’ the Black Ships be a mystery-packed, superstition-drenched, action-laden gem what’ll leave ye grinnin’ like a shark in a shipwreck, so come aboard, one and all!
Better yet, it only be the first haul o’ pearls from this dive! Go on an’ plunder the whole fetchin’ lot:
Puffs of smoke rise from a hidden clearing in the woods, where I, Jebediah "Luddy” McFlintluck the Thirty-First, scratch out this message with a charred stick on a slab of bark. My wrist-sundial tells it’s nigh on noon, May 8, 2025, but I ain’t got time to dawdle - the Amish Mafia and my Russian loanshark’s goons are hot on my tail, and I’m runnin’ low on kindlin’ for roastin’ hare and signal firin’. Still, I gotta react to this Rowan Wilder fella and his “Trad Author” manifesto, ‘cause it’s got me hootin’ louder than a burnin’ barn owl in a windstorm.
Well, ain’t this a hollerin’ hoot! Rowan Wilder, struttin’ like a peacock with his fancy quills and high-class homemade ink, actin’ like he’s the last bastion of “real writin’.” Meanwhile, I’m out here livin’ so low-tech I make his Walden Society look like a Silicon Valley startup. He ain’t got half a cowpie on me - smoke signals are my Wi-Fi, bub, and sundials are my smartwatch. I carve my stories into rocks and tree trunks with a flint knife on a stick, and my publishin’ platform is shoutin’ tales to the ravens while dodgin’ pitchforks from those broad-brim-hatted, bushy-bearded Pennsylvania fellers. They’s still bein’ sore ‘bout that whole “counterfitin’” deal - look, it were either that or big boss Boris be screwin’ both my thumbs to his desk.
Wilder’s yammerin’ about hand-pressed paper and swan feathers - advanced, ain’t he? I’m over here boilin’ pinecones in leafy pots for ink and usin’ moss for parchment. It’s takin’ me two-score days to set camp and send a one-sentence smoke signal, and half the time the wind scatters it ‘fore the village chief squints out my latest plot twist. But do I complain? Naw. That’s real craft, Rowan! You think tannin’ goat hide for book covers is sacrifice? Bull-oh-ney! Try outrunnin’ Ivan the “Enforcer” while haulin’ two sacks of acorns to barter for more flint. My last novella got interrupted when them Amish boys torched my signal pile, claimin’ I was “defilin’ the old ways” with my sinnin’ newfangled story arc.
And this Walden Society business? Kickin’ out poor Lowell Morrow for some store-bought ink? That’s colder than a Russian winter, the one where I left behind my right big toe in a lean-to. I’d love to join their little club but I reckon they’d excommunicate me faster than you can say “digitalis” once I humiliated them with my spell-checkin’ knotted rope. Plus, I ain’t got $99 buckaroos for no “Patreon” to watch Wilder’s goat-slaughter flick - I’m strugglin’ as-is, busy dodgin’ Vladimir’s brass knuckles and all. You try digging up a whole 50 rubles with today’s exchange rates - drat that infernal pigeon race wager - may you roast in perdition forever, Tweety!
As for YouTube boycotts, what the heck is that? I don’t even know what a “YouTube” is - sounds like some kinda high-tech pursuit boat those darned Anabaptists would cruise in while they is smashin’ up my catgut fishnets.
Wilder’s got guts, I’ll give ‘im that - bleedin’ for his art with a sliced-up thumb. But real sacrifice is scratchin’ up a saga while hidin’ in a hollow log with the loansharks circlin’ and an Amish capo mutterin’ threats about “shuckin’ my soul in a cornfield.” Sure, I’d enjoy a preordered Tradition Bound bought with some smoked trout I trade for an Amazon gift card (don’t tell Boris), but a six month wait? I’ll have told my whole tale via smoke signal by then, assumin’ I ain’t gotten both my legs broken by a bear ‘afore that (by Russian, by beast, or both).
So, Rowan, keep your quills and your highfalutin’ manifesto. I’m stickin’ to my superior ways - smoke, stone, and a good runnin’ start. If you ever wanna learn real low-tech writin’, come find me, I’ll be leavin’ rock signs and smoke clouds for ya, just listen close fo’ the sound o’ gallopin’ hooves and Russian cursin’. Vale amici - and watch your back - Alexei “Bulletfist” don’t mess around.
Gotta go, the sundial’s tickin’ and the smell o’ pursuit an'd buggy grease is waftin’ in the air. Time to puff out this message and hightail it ‘fore the pitchforks get me. If you see a signal fire spellin’ “HELP,” send whiskey:
(Author) (Publication)
I haven’t had this much fun a read since that one time a guy had me half-convinced RoboCop was the second coming of Jesus Christ.
I didn’t know whether to hold up a crucifix and my trusty spraybottle of holy water or swing out a pen and paper to take notes - so I decided, what the heck, be safe, do both. Thus I dive headfirst into Pneumanaut’s "Kubrick's Monolith: A Plausible Genesis Account?"
What if 2001: A Space Odyssey is secretly the Bible’s sci-fi remix? With a sly wink, we lament our Netflix-induced coma where endless “content” has zapped our movie mojo. So we fall back on old classics like that hairy tale of jumping around Kubrick’s mysterious Monolith, that black slab that’s half alien tech, half divine spark, and turning apes into Moon-Watchers who’d rather club each other than stargaze like a bunch of doe-eyed cows. Did God come unto Kubrick like he did Lady Mary that one night, saying “Bro, lemme borrow your talent stack and run a focus group for my latest Genesis remix?”
Let science and faith share a high-five as Pneumanaut and his friend the Monolith play matchmaker between evolution and Genesis. It’s a fun tongue-in-cheek theory - Kubrick as prophet, apes as Adam, and God as the universe’s coolest transcendence-spinning DJ:
I don’t know what’s going on because I just dropped in on page 81. But… art!
There’s a little bit for everyone: haircuts that remain impeccable through time, laying of magical healy-hands, snuggly Narnia wyverns full of exposition, power-shard surgical implantation, digital diamond oracle-ladies, fire wings that go for a swim, an elf-eared dude sweating over a grocery list while some mean lady flagellates him with her red octopus hair, and dudes applying logic to causation paradoxes while playing dress-up:
(Author) (Publication)
“Sword Songs: The Crow Feeder - pt1,” Tal Cádu, aka the Crow Feeder, hulks out in a way that’d make Bruce Banner jealous - swapping gamma rays for the “Crooked God’s” chaos juice. The story visuals are eloquent and gruesome - when he morphs into a tattooed, blade-swinging monster, it’s less “smash” and more “slash with poetic savagery,” painting the battlefield in vivid, blood-soaked strokes. Darby’s writing turns a slaughter into a grotesque ballet - it’s short, but at one point I chuckled at the sheer absurdity of a god-possessed warrior shredding foes like some berserk food processor. Read this if you fancy the idea of the big green guy trading in his purple shorts for kilt, sword, and axe, and going full Braveheart on some poor folks:
Arthurian aficionados, smack your knightly visors into position and couch a lance! Shield of Locksley’s prologue is a harrowing, fiery plunge into a dark ages adventure! Our pint-sized protagonist, Locksley, doesn’t go easy into his epic quest. This is no group of unlikely fireside heroes at a tavern nodding along to some hooded stranger’s babbling about a dark cloud crossing the land. Nope, Locksley gets tossed straight into a flaming, storm-tossed siege that makes other fantasy intros seem like backyard barbecues! From a nine-year-old’s perspective, this is less “hero’s journey” and more “survive the apocalypse until bedtime,” and by Merlin’s wizardly beard, it’s spectacular.
Locksley, poor lad, likely wishes he’d stayed in bed that morning. Now muddy rainwater soaks his shoes as he sprints through a flaming town, arrows hissing through the rain like angry fireflies. Hakon Harroldson’s goons and Lot’s head-collectors seem to have a personal grudge against the walls, what with all the wobbling siege engines and ladders and a battering ram going whomp-whomp like an avalanche of giant cranky babies. We’re painted a picture so dire I think even Sir Lancelot might go, “Eh, I’m out!” (how forwardly-French of him)!
But for a kid in the middle of it who doesn’t get to see the book’s titled Shield of Locksley, it might not seem like such a glorious character-building exercise (I’m sorry about your mom). Forget pulling swords from stones; surviving this inferno is Locksley’s origin story.
The visuals are as gritty as they are vivid. Woestenburg knows how to conjure a scene: “Shadows leaped and jumped in the growing light of the flames—the long, graceless caricatures of the men and women tossing water on the leaping, cavorting, flames.” Talk about a fever-dream (speaking of which, Locksley, isn’t it past your bedtime?). These “graceless caricatures” make it so you can almost hear the fire cackling at the villagers’ futile resistance.
Palisades blaze, boiling fat cascades down walls, and siege engines loom through a ravaged landscape. It would be a bit much for a first chapter if Locksley’s terrified perspective didn’t keep it grounded - we’re not swinging a sword; we’re slipping in mud, gaping at the carnage, and asking our grumpy Druid babysitter: “Are we gonna die yet?”
I’m always up for a fort collapsing like a flaming Jenga tower, a spooky tunnel dubbed the Dragon’s Lair (mood lighting: damp and creepy), and a kid who’s one scream away from a lifetime of nightmares (and surely a future career in heroism). Consider me a new fan:
(Author) (Publication)
Are you a werido like me who’s suspected robots are real people ever since you were child? Then you’ll love this nostalgia-fueled rocket trip. It almost makes me want to drive cross country to my old house’s back yard and dig up that old Tamagotchi I buried in in shame. I’m so sorry I let you starve to death!
Unrelated… got any tips for finding out if you’re a robot clone? And if so, where to insert your batteries?
No? Okay:
Hey fellow “Numberless”, do you fancy a surreal dive into being born emo? After reading Quibble I’m burning with so much angst it’s like someone hacked my old Tumblr account and plastered it with all the baby pictures from my mom’s album of me.
This story is about the eponymous Quibble, a newborn “One” who’s basically the ultimate emo teen from the second she’s born - crying, overanalyzing her entire life, and knee-jerk rebelling against society (does the “Consensus” host a Hot Topic?). The worldbuilding is - excuse me for this descriptor - surreally real. With each gluttonous spin of the mouse wheel this chapter sprayed my face with aerosolized DMT mixed with glitter and existential dread. I’m not crying, you’re crying. It’s like that one time when I found a band nobody’s heard of but it became my entire personality for a month!
The world of the “Ones” is like if your high school clique was a cult, but make it intergalactic and digital and… wet. Quibble’s born “Within,” a dark, damp place where everyone’s doing their brief “alive” thing before they formally enter a creepy digital gestalt. I could practically smell the amniotic fluid and hear the echo of a thousand voices chanting “Quibble!” like some cursed cheerleading squad. “Unity” runs brainwashing lessons in the womb, and names like Quiddity and Quandary sound like they were chosen by throwing darts at my 6th period philosophy professor’s whiteboard. If I’d been born knowing how to spell I might hate my name too - never mind, I hate it regardless! Quibble’s world might be in the distant future, but it’s still the kind of place where if it were me I’d scribble angsty poetry in a notebook only to burn it because nobody gets me.
Imagine being born awake and aware of what’s happening to you. I could almost hear Unity’s womb-lectures on spelling and conformity (ugh, getting homework before you’re even born!). I’m weeping sympathy tears into my metaphorical studded wristbands - one second she’s chilling in mama’s womb, the next she’s being passed around like a hot potato in a room full of strangers already calling her “willful.” Man, what did she get herself into? She never asked to be born, okay? I feel this pain! It’s like showing up to a big family Thanksgiving and realizing no one you’re related to is cool, that you’re the only person with an actual life to live. “Unity” hates willful kids and calls her precocious - give me a break, she’s five minutes old! Quibble’s been robbed of her cute and carefree baby days, instead born straight into her misunderstood teenage years:
Filigree and Fire - Poetry, Art, Journeys
My top spot actually fell to the bottom of the stairs, down a very specific private cave where Graeme once concealed his dank and secretive genius.
While reading this I tripped on LSD without taking any substances or even getting up from my chair. There I was, minding my own business, then Graeme drives by and pitches a glyph-shaped fidget-spinner like frisbee and knocks me off my ass. Next thing I know I’m 6-years-old again, sitting in front of the old IBM PC/AT Model 5170, mashing buttons and playing Thexder. I transform between robot and jet fighter, navigating the 2d landscape like a pro, blasting lasers at far-out discs and wild orbs that look like they came straight out of Graeme’s collection.
I’m like alright, this is cool and all, but it’s late and I’m a dad with responsibilities now, time to take the mental stairs out - but nope, I’m trapped in the Thexder fugue trance until I can beat the final boss! I can’t remember - did the thing have tentacles? A billion hit points? Or did it just hang there like a giant, smug fidget spinner, taunting me with its esoteric glow? I’m caught in an underground cave of my own mind with no curtain to peel back until I master the final challenge.
I wracked my childhood memories for a clue and finally found it - the final boss is my mom - telling me to go to bed! Thinking fast, I flip into fighter mode and swoop right past her hugging arms, swerving down the hall and barely cutting the narrow angle into my room. I rocked out the robot mode and, with energy beams on full power, blasted my bed to smithereens. Then I snapped back to fighter mode right as I smashed through the window and careened onto freedom. Wind rushed over the hull as I zoomed past the atmosphere to the stars, all while humming the tune to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata:
My self promotion hidden down here at the bottom:
Picture a 35-ton warbot with the soul of a knight and the sass of a freshly unshackled AI. Mercy, once a Slave in the Cabal’s war machine, just got a promotion to Awareness. Now she’s questioning everything, from her loyalty to the Primus Lords to why her new body feels like it’s made to audition for a sci-fi rom-com. In a universe where man and machine battle to annihilation, join Mercy as she dodges laser fire, wrestles with betrayal, and wonders if her shiny new consciousness comes with a user’s manual. Fans of warrior epics and mind-bending tech will love this tale of a warrior-scout turned rebellious angel, ready to carve her own legend despite the galaxy’s brutal attempts to stop her:
Bellageist: An Angel's Armor
A young posthuman warrior rises emergent and learns the mysteries of her organic ancestors.
Thanks for reading!
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My notifications have failed me! I don't know how I missed this one when you posted it. The dedication to the pirate prose is laudable and impressive, sir! Glad you enjoyed Night of the Black Ships!
Thanks for reviewing the opening chapter of "Quibble," Derek, even if you laser-burned it to a pile of cinders with critical snark! I roared with laughter, reading this. It's so much better to get your writing ripped apart by someone with stylistic panache and a sense of humor!