DREAD Reviews 20
Dad Reads and Examines Authors while Distracted
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Ah, the old fear-laughter spectrum. I wonder how H. P. Lovecraft would see today’s humor? What would he think of our reality-bending software, technology’s ability to capture a moment, preserve it, propagate it as a viral memetic?
He might say: “Inside every joke is a little piece of Cthulhu yearning to break out.” Tell enough jokes, and the ancients might just wake up.
All things delightfully absurd are a mere tightrope walk away from the frightening abyss. Chuckles bubble up from at recognition of life’s incongruities. The familiar is twisted just enough to tickle the brain. Taken a little bit further, though, and jokes transmute into admissions of our deepest fears. When jokes turns uncanny, when the familiar becomes too alien, when the mind glimpses something awful which it can’t unsee - this is when you discover that humor and horror share the same DNA. Laughter is surprise, subversion, a sudden jolt to the psyche. Horror is the same but… worse.
Humor thrives on breaking rules, on poking at the edges of what’s safe. A good punchline is a tiny rebellion against order, a fleeting glimpse of chaos. And what is chaos incarnate? Cthulhu; an ancient, indifferent nightmare of gargantuan scale. A forgotten god so vast it is unmoved by humanity’s pathetic attempt to make sense of the universe.
Every joke pokes a sliver-thin hole into the barrier separating us from truths that shatter minds. Every laugh is another tiny cut between the illusion of reality and the horrors of the cosmos beyond. These breaches, when fallacious objective reality rusts a bit, our neat little world of physical law descends an inch further into nonsense and taboo. The best comedians must know this instinctively: they dance close to the void, teasing us with a peek at something vast and unnameable before yanking us back to safety with a smirk and a laugh.
But they play with fire. What if one day we tell one too many jokes and wake the corrupted ancients? What if comedy is a kind of incantation where every punchline is a hidden syllable in a forgotten, eldritch tongue? How close are we to fraying the barrier to ruin? Should we tell enough jokes and push the absurdity far enough, might we accidentally summon… something? A crack in the cosmos where the Old Ones stir?
Every stand-up set could be a metaphysical outpost at the edge of the universe where giggles gain a keen, murderous edge. A comedian bombing isn’t just failing to get laughs; they’re failing to appease the void. But a comedian who kills it? They might be sacrificing more than they know, cracking open the door to a place where cultists thrive and tentacles might slither through.
Think about this the next time you chuckle at some dark humor, the next time you say “this shouldn’t be so funny!” Is it catharsis, or a flirtation with the forbidden? We laugh at death, at pain, at the absurdities of existence because it’s our way of staring into the abyss and saying, “Not yet.” But the abyss is patient. Stack up enough punchlines, and you’re not just mocking it, you’re chanting its name, inviting it in.
Honestly, I can’t wait to see it. The most hilarious comedian telling jokes so funny the torpid reptilian eye of the cosmos slithers open to witnesses our forgotten little corner, our tiny aberration of tidy rules and cleanly ordered elements. As our collective psychic energy spikes, the hilarity of that last viral skit will tip the spectrum, laughter capsizing into abject fear, where every joyous revelry past and present transmogrifies into one mind-blowing realization. Suddenly the stars will align in the sky and stare down menacingly.
The ancients don’t just wake now, they crash the stage. The punchline: humanity itself. It will be the last rational thought we ever have.
Jokes aren’t dangerous in themselves, they’re only sparks. But light enough of them, and you might ignite something you can’t put out.
Coincidentally, a couple horror themes are sprinkled into this week’s issue. Check them out (or stick to the more benign reads, coward!):
Move over, Byzantine Empire, you overrated sequel with your gaudy mosaics and snooze-fest schisms! Phisto Sobanii’s got ahold of the cinematic trailer for episode 3 of the Roman Empire we didn’t know we needed. It’s called the American Imperium - a bold, sun-soaked reboot of civilization itself which will finally put to rest that awful Holy Roman Empire episode (non-canon far as I’m concerned, don’t @ me).
From dust, like a rusty chariot at a monster truck rally, I came upon Phisto’s article on this ongoing imperial renaissance, and I’m an instant diehard fan. This ain’t your grandpa’s empire, people; it’s a rootin’, tootin’, Christ-powered wild west extravaganza. It hits harder than one of Sam Houston’s musket volleys at San Jacinto and makes the rise of Constantinople look like a community theater production.
The article starts with Sobanii spotting a turquoise 1954 Chevrolet Bel Air (the currus triumphalis of this imperial saga - er, the chariot a victor rides in on, come on people, stay with me). This isn’t just a car; it’s a chrome-plated symbol - nay, a physical incarnation of the soul of the New World, cruising through Florida’s heat like a gunslinger with a Colt-branded destiny. The Latino owner rocks a Panama hat and has Texas roots - a perfect co-star dropping Lone Star lore.
Sobanii pitches the American Imperium as Rome 2.0 minus the decadent toga parties, poisonous lead pipes, or the backstabbing senators (maybe go back to the editing room for that last one?). Our empire’s got no time for Mars’ old-school blood-and-steel shtick - sorry, Byzantines, your endless wars and iconoclasm controversies were a flop because it turns out Christianity and military expansionism just didn’t hit audiences the same way. Episode 3 plans to go in a bold new direction - North American blockbuster starring cowboys and vaqueros united under Christ’s banner forging a civilization so shiny it makes the Roman sewers and aqueducts look like the kiddie pool. The hype is real: Texas, Mexico, and the whole dang continent are ready to don that imperial crown which I’m sure is lost somewhere in the desert just begging for a gunslinger to pick it up with the barrel of a gun (rumor has it, the crown’s got “Made in the USA” stamped on it).
Compared to the Byzantine Empire - that bloated sequel with its bureaucratic plot holes and overrated Hagia Sophia cameo (they sold that set for an Islamic spinoff series) - the vision for this new era is lean, mean, and ready to dominate the box office of history. The Byzantines tried to keep Rome’s warlike franchise alive with frequent cuts to fancy Greek fire between its endless councils and religious rituals. But instead of awe-inspiring spectacle, it felt like watching a soap opera with too many incestuous emperors and not enough heart. Now I know you’re going to point out this is technically Imperium 7 - but that Holy Roman Empire fanfic doesn’t even count. Charlemagne’s cosplay was cool and all but a total miscast, barely holding off Umayyads with flint-tipped spears and… bearskins? Worse than Ewoks! And let’s just skip the Spanish and English for taking too long to get to elections.
Sobanii’s American Imperium is the true successor to the series Rome started. A buddy-cop epic where Anglo and Latin heroes team up, powered by faith and independence, to build a civilization that’ll outlast a thousand Netflix reboots.
Sobanii’s article tastes and sounds like a Fourth of July barbecue: loud, proud, and maybe a little bit sweaty, with just enough explosions in it to make you cheer. Grab your Stetson, crank up that Sweet Home Alabama remix, and subscribe to The Partisan. This is one empire you’ll want to pledge allegiance to, and it’s gonna be yuge! Yee-haw:
I can almost hear the sky giggling as it slips into the sea’s bubbly embrace:
Substack’s evolution is like a neon sign announcing: “THIS IS THE FUTURE,” and I’m just a moth fluttering toward it - notice my sad little wings! I was obsessed with success in my early days and I’m still trying - I have 13 followers now (hi mom)! But they never engage. Please, someone - Ted, God, anyone - tell me I belong!
Stage One, where Substack was just a blip nobody cared about… I felt this. Early on, whenever I tell people I’m on Substack, they’re like, “Is that a sort of cryptocurrency?” The blank stares I’d get when I tried to explain it, no, it’s not a blog, and I’d try to show them my more popular artisanal toast posts (one of them has three likes!). They’d nod along but they’d seem unbelieving and ask “Why so many cat memes?” and I’d be like “Ignore those they’re just for fun!” …cringe.
But like me, Substack powered through the obscurity! At Stage Two, Substack became the butt of jokes (that’s why I came here, it started as a joke! haha! ha… ha.). I cackled at that New Yorker cartoon about the mom’s holiday newsletter. Savage! Man, I’m so jealous - I’d kill for someone to make fun of my posts (I can’t even get my mom to press the like button half the time). But Ted’s right: Substack turned shade into fuel and kept growing. I’m doing this too - I mean, maybe I didn’t turn the shade into growth though (it all kinda passed me by heheh… heh…).
At Stage Three the big shots attacked Substack… because freedom?! Ted’s spilling tea about rude emails and censorship attempts, and I’m like, preach, brother! I actually know what this is like! One time my best friend said “have you tried being interesting?” and I thought he was giving advice, but now I know I was just hitting stage three along with the rest of the platform! Screw you, man! I can literally feel the clout building up - I mean, it may not have manifested in numbers, yet, but that won’t stop me from getting a “resist bullies” tattoo tomorrow. I think I’ll livestream it! It’s sure to give me icon-status! Where did I put my ibuprofen…
Stage Four, though? AAAAAAH! The establishment - The New Yorker, Billboard, even the BBC jumping on Substack like it’s the Titanic’s last lifeboat? I spilled my coffee (decaf, because my therapist tells me I’m too anxious for the real stuff). The New Yorker went from mocking Substack to calling it the home of the “Great American Novel,” and even Billboard launched a Substack! The audacity! This gives me the courage to forget all those times I said I’d delete my account in a desperate plea for attention - flip flopping clearly doesn’t matter for the big guys, so screw it!This is my signal to become part of the cool-kid takeover. Wait, I just had a great idea - I’ll share my fascinating personal journey as I switch to a new blood pressure medicine! It’s sure to be a hit!
But Substack, you beautiful caterpillar - or butterfly, or whatever you are now - your metamorphosis isn’t over. Ted has a Stage Five prediction, where alternative and legacy media blur into one big messy borg of unlimited engagement. The thought gives me chills - is this some kind of informational singularity, and can I please get sucked up in this? I’m hyperventilating, dreaming of Substack collapsing into a black hole at the center of the universe - my fast food drive through rants and pictures of vintage bottle caps finally achieving their rightful place in the new world order! Move over, Pepsi and Nike, losers - you can’t buy fame like this!
Disclaimer: sorry for any typos, I refreshed my Substack 47 times while writing this hoping for a notification to validate my existence:
Now, listen here, I ain’t one for them newfangled gadgets. I been dodgin’ computers and smartphones like they’s tax collectors since Y2K. My trusty typewriter’s been my only pal for scribblin’, and I post my out-loud thoughts via good ol’ snail mail so a friend can sneak ‘em onto the nets.
But I got my hands on This “Tales of the Unexpected: Drop Your Substack.” At first I’m all ready to scoff at what’s appearin’ to be another tech-obsessed gimmick rantin’ and ravin’ for engagement. But by the sweet and merciful physical ink - this tale didn’t just have me laughin’ like a mule, it also had me shaking like a leaf in a storm. It turns out it’s a horror short that made even a tech-hatin’ hermit like me go checkin’ under the bed for digital boogeymen.
Priestly spins a yarn about a fella - let’s call him Theo’s Shadow - messin’ around on Substack, (one of them “social medias”). He notices a lotta pesky “Notes” poppin’ up, beggin’ folks to “drop they’s Substack” and “build a community.” Sounds like a church potluck invite, right? Wrong! These notes are comin’ from creepy bot profiles, all with fake AI-generatin’ smiles and empty promises and all postin’ generic drivel while never readin’ a lick of human content. Theo’s Shadow gets suspicious, and then - shiver my feathered quill - words are vanishin’ from posts right before his eyes!
He calls his buddy Jay, an old friend going by an alias: “Robopulp.” Poor Jay looks like he’d done wrestled a banshee; grey skin, bloodshot eyes, and fingers bleedin’ from too much typin’. Jay spills the beans: these ain’t bots, they’s word-eatin’ digital vampires from the land of Cthulhu. They latch onto link-sharin’ writers and suck they’s words dry. It’s simple - if they stop typin’, they’s gonna wither and fall over dead, just like that. Jay’s jaw’s literally bubblin’ away like it’s bein’ gnawed off, forcin’ him to type faster as he speaks.
Theo’s Shadow quits Substack, vowin’ to never write online again, but - and here’s a kicker - he tells his tale on one of them podcasts, endin’ it with a cheeky “drop your podcast in the comments,” just like them bots. I near dropped my inkwell laughin’ - maybe not so much fiction goin’ on here, after all!
Priestley’s pokin’ fun at folks chasin’ online “likes” and “follows,” which I similarly reckon’s like chasin’ virtual gold in some digital river. All this Substack lingo - Notes, subscriptions, and such - it’s all goin’ over my head like a biplane though. I ain’t got a clue what a “subscription list” is, and I don’t care to, but it don’t matter - I still laughed and maybe peed a bit, ‘cause this here little gem is scary as all get-out. Priestley’s got a knack for blendin’ chuckles with chills, even for a tech-avoidin’ codger like me:
Like your stories quick and dirty with a side of whisky and a naked victory dance?
Read “Free Bird” by Ricardo, a masterclass in speed, wit, and character-packed storytelling. Ending a relationship has never before been this fun or efficient - minus the lawyer and moving van.
The characters here burst onto the page: a 75-year-old hero, silver-haired sage with a tongue sharper than a chef’s knife, and his soon-to-be-ex, a firecracker whose rock-hard confidence (and, ahem, assets) can’t mask her meltdown in the face of this new backbone. The man’s old. Old enough he’s reached the point in life he’d rather conduct an imaginary orchestra than entertain his toxic partner’s tantrums. And at that age you’re going to be swift and lyrical with the zingers: “I can do just fine with half as beautiful but twice as clever.”
Mrs. Firecracker unleashes venom and volume in response, tossing napkins and insults with the drama of a reality TV star, but ultimately she’s done, snatches the cash, and storms out. This couple is painted larger than life in the boldest strokes and transforms a simple domestic dispute into a linguistic cage match - over in a flash, yet unforgettable.
Faster than a getaway car, Ricardo rockets us from a quiet dinner to a full-blown breakup blowout in under 500 words then wraps it up in a bow before you’ve even finished microwaving your popcorn. One minute our darling’s whistling a gym tune, the next she’s shrieking profanities. No drawn-out tears, no couples therapy, just a swift “get your things and move on” that’s as satisfying as slamming a door.
Ending a relationship has never been such a riot. Freshly single at 75, our hero cranks up Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” and dances naked. His “whole anatomy dangling to the beat” is a gleeful middle finger to heartbreak - and liberation in its purest form:
Skinner Box is a straight-up horror gut-punch - a ~3,000-word scarefest as if someone cranked up The X-Files with an experimental dose of LSD. As you read this, you’ll swear spiders are crawling up your back. We skip the boring bits of most horror setups and go right for the “Nope!” here with little Katyusha, a two-and-a-half-year-old grittier than most adults. She takes a brain-scrambling trip through an electrified, crimson-lit hellbox, and shucks, why not toss in severed heads and swarms of creepy-crawlies too? Thanks for adding to my sleep debt, Evelyn. I’ll be clutching my kids extra tight tonight.
We’ve also got conspiracy vibes, secret compounds, Manchurian Candidates… Sure, it starts a bit chatty about this or that, and Evelyn mentions there’s parts I haven’t read. But it’s like nodding off to your cool goth aunt before suddenly she interrupts tea time to round-house kick you into the abyss, yelling: “Are you listening?” I’m a newbie to her series and had to squint a bit, but I didn’t care. The shock value in this doesn’t just push the envelope, it licks it with napalm and sets it on fire.
Slam that “Like” button, grab some sleeping pills (or some whisky), and remember, “Good Girls, ride the silvery wings:”
Peter’s gone from polishing the shoes of High Court Judges to polishing prose, and now he’s got stories that could make a teacup blush. He leaps from unemployed butler to murder-mystery maestro. Half of me imagines him tapping he rim of a glass and muttering: “Well, why not? If I can’t serve champagne, I’ll serve drama.” Though my other half suspects he’s still plying the service trade and wrote this while hiding in a pantry from some nosy lord.
Stonebridge manor serves up a piping hot platter of murder mystery with a side of scandal. Lady Baldwin seems less “lady of the manor” and more “femme fatale who’d steal your heart and more than half the manor.” This woman’s got the audacity of a peacock strutting through a council estate: lying face-down on a bed, sheet barely clinging to her dignity, plotting her next conquest at 3 p.m. on a Tuesday. She’ll have her champagne and her lover, and she’ll ruin both if she pleases. The description of her “perky breasts” and “long slim legs” makes me wonder what shenanigans Peter got up to during his butler days (I hope he didn’t get caught!).
She pays for an apartment to facilitate an affair with Simon, an ex-butler and lovesick puppy juggling champagne glasses and unrequited love like some posh circus act. He pads around in striped boxers, popping corks while dreaming of ousting the husband Lord Baldwin. The tiny apartment, with its “dreadful chocolate” curtains (a crime clearly worse than murder) sets a perfect stage for this illicit rendezvous.
The writing drips with just enough scandal to keep you hooked. It’s not perfect, (Peter’s intro rambles a bit like an unwanted visitor lost in the hedge maze) and I didn’t even know there was fiction to be found here when I first clicked the link. But the sheer camp of Lady Baldwin’s scheming and Simon’s hopeless devotion definitely rewarded my persistence.
The teaser’s a delightful romp - part mystery and part guilty pleasure. Stonebridge has four chapters out so far, and it’s sure to be a success if they all match this cheekiness:
A jittery professor clings to his tenure like a starving man holding the last slice pizza at a food fight. Then he’s thrown into a buddy-cop flick with a guy named after a monster truck rally gone wrong: Lieutenant Barge Slaughter (yes, Barge Slaughter, because apparently “Brock Thunderpunch” was too subtle). This tale of academic desperation colliding with over-the-top action-hero bravado is a laugh-out-loud trainwreck much like I imagine a scene with Indiana Jones crashing a spaceship into The Office.
Dr. Yem Teni, our hero, is a Tertian Studies professor at Mars University, and his classes are emptier then the Martian bars at 4 a.m. Facing a thesis deadline tighter than Barge’s jockstrap, Yem’s so desperate he signs up as the “sidekick” (her word, not mine) to Barge; a part-time adventurer who’s 98% muscle and 2% brain. Winchester sets her stage for hilarity by pitting Yem’s dusty Tertian textbooks against Barge’s “shoot first, think never” philosophy.
The absurdity kicks into high gear when Yem and Barge land on lush Tertia, a planet that makes Mars look like a landfill. Yem’s clutching his ancient book like it’s a security blanket while Barge struts forth like Rambo dual-wielding laser guns. Yem, who’d probably lose in a fight with a poodle, gets handed a chunk of jerky and an invitation to hang with the locals - while Barge gets… not so much. It’s the ultimate nerd triumph: survive by being too pathetic to kill.
Winchester milks every ounce possible from this mismatched duo. Yem’s fretting and tenure-track meltdown together with Barge, bless his chiseled heart, turns both into walking caricatures, (with Barge sauntering through Tertia like he expects a camera crew to follow). Yem’s scene where he realizes his life’s work is as useful as a paperweight in a sandstorm is both humorous and oddly poignant. Publish or perish doesn’t account for actual arrows, it turns out.
Tertia (like many of my shorts) ends too soon (along with Barge’s diplomatic career). It could use a sequel (does it have one? I haven’t looked). Perhaps Nicole could write: “Yem Teni and the Quest for a Signal Back to Mars”? Either way, for now this story serves just fine as a riotous romp through the perils of academic obscurity and action-hero hubris. And it proves that, sometimes, the best way to survive a sci-fi adventure is to be the guy who knows when to drop a book and eat the jerky:
I have two top spots this issue, here at the bottom where you’re less likely to find them, and both of them cater to my true love - science fiction reads of the thicker variety. I love you, poems, short stories, horror trips, and deep thoughts - but good sci-fi romps are what my heart really yearns for. Too rarely do I indulge like I will today!
Moon Sea Marauders, an eight-part (ongoing) steampunk serial by James Kenwood, is a good old-fashioned imperial conquest catapulting Victorian-era Brits into a hunt for dastardly French privateers - on the moon. With crystal-powered airships, alien caves, and a kidnapped noblewoman, it’s like Master and Commander went up to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and threw down a gauntlet: “Up, not down!”
Me being me, I couldn’t help but compare this tale’s main themes to some modern and historical parallels. I’m not sorry - you’re the one who clicked the link - now you’ll pay the price:
Colonial Ambition, Imperialism, and Never Escaping the French Not Even on the Moon
The British in Moon Sea Marauders are out here colonizing the moon like it’s the 19th-century Americas, planting flags, plantations, and mining camps on islands in the Sea of Serenity while eyeballing shiny moon coral and daedricium crystals. It doesn’t get more British than this - nothing screams “God Save the Queen” like strip-mining a lunar penal colony named Absolution Point. But just like in the New World -and the Old - those pesky French are everywhere, taunting, raiding settlements, and snatching noblewomen like it’s some Napoleonic soap opera. The serial’s Anglo-French rivalry is the core of the story so far with Captain Devworth and his crew seemingly doomed to chase the tri-colour flag from the lunar poles back down to Quebec, then Paris, then maybe even all the way to Mars and beyond. Remember, no matter how far you sail (or fly into space), you can’t outrun those damned francophones. “Blimey, not these frogs again!”
Duty, Sacrifice, and Old-School Simping
The crew’s dogged pursuit of Lady Jessica, kidnapped by those French rascals, is all about duty and sacrifice. Captain Devworth rallies his men through storms, ice, and alien caves, risking life and limb for Queen and country (and one very important damsel). It’s the kind of stiff-upper-lip heroism that older generations mastered - men who knew “simping” by a different term - duty! These Victorian blokes aren’t writing sonnets or sliding into Lady Jessica’s DMs; they’re packing muskets and braving frostbite to save her, because honor trumps feelings. Compare that to today’s thot-hunters who’d probably Venmo the French captain for a Zoom call with Jessica, spam a bunch of hearts on every sentence she said, then call it a day. The serial’s a masterclass in old-school grit: sacrifice for the mission, not for clout, and keep your emotions in check unless you want to end up like the French - fleeing into a creepy cave with no exit strategy.
Alienation, Otherness, and Why You Can Never Bring Enough Priests
The Crystal Caves of Qal’th feature statues of tentacle-goat-crab hybrids and murals of floating pyramids and make me think HP Lovecraft ghostwrote this - and not that kind of ghostwriting, but by literally possessing James and typing through his hands. The crew’s alienation in this landscape is palpable. Brits in fur coats, clutching muskets, staring at seven-mooned skies and blood-drinking crystals and doubting in the strength of God and the Empire... It’s a clear hint that the British could learn from the Spanish imperialist playbook: bring more priests next time! The Spaniards would’ve had a dozen Jesuits blessing every crystal and exorcising those creepy statues or maybe launching a full-fledged Inquisition on the spot. Meanwhile our Limey protagonists are left shaking in their boots, our doctor sketching fish-headed centaurs while the crew mutters their superstitions. The “otherness” of Qal’th isn’t just alien - it’s a spiritual wake-up call. The British Empire’s musket and science meal desperately requires a chaser of holy water.
Adventure, Perseverance, and the Case for Summer Camp
This serial is Adventure with a capital “A,” from airship battles, to trudging through lunar snow, to storming alien caves. The crew’s perseverance - pushing through storms, failing technology, and French ambushes - is a testament to human tenacity. It’s also a screaming advertisement for why you need to send your kid to summer camp and toughen them up. Imagine if these sailors had grown up in today’s culture of participation trophies, Tik-Tok, and readily available Wi-Fi. As soon as their phones disconnected they’d be whining about the crippling cold and drafting “#LunarProblem” complaints that never send. Summer Camp builds grit. Navigating icy trails, dodging musket fire, and facing alien horrors requires the kind of backbone you can only get from sleeping in a tent, eating questionable campfire stew, and going for an impromptu swim when your improvised raft sinks in a lake! Toughen up your kids, people - while they might not exactly go chasing French villains into a blood-absorbing crystal cave, it’s still a good idea to get them some old-fashioned wilderness character building. You never know when hard times or an imperialist crusade into a new frontier is going to hit next!
Moon Sea Marauders is a delightful blend of steampunk bagel and cosmic toast dipped in sweet British grit and savory French villainy. It’s a reminder that colonial dreamers can never escape old rivals, reason can’t always save you from alien weirdness, and duty calls you to do more than simp your way to defeat. Kenwood’s serial is a blast - think Jules Verne, but going up into the sky instead of down into the ground (and loading his steam car up with cannon and a bad attitude toward those wily French):
Toppier spot but more bottomier!
I’m Derek. Yep, I have the same name as love interest Anouk’s dad in Kathrine Elaine’s The Lightbreakers of Orpheus. As a proud “dada” of a one-year-old daughter myself, I’m already practicing my harsh, judging glare of future suitors - especially, now, for those of the biomechanical-super-soldier variety. I enjoyed all 17 parts I’ve read (the series is still ongoing), but clutched my not-so-metaphorical shotgun the whole way, thinking: how far in the future is this, exactly, and should I be ready to protect my kid from a cyborg date?
Elaine’s clearly got romance writer in her veins. But at 17 parts of Lightbringers (following 32 parts of → Gravediggers ←), I think we can safely say she’s no longer dipping her toes into sci-fi - she’s taken the dive and now she’s gone for a swim! Nonetheless, Lightbreakers feels like she dressed up Terminator and turned him into a bodice-ripper, but this is a good thing.
We follow Mark who’s a soldier jacked up with biomechanical implants, authoritarian brainwashing, and too much Red Bull. He’s programmed to “break the light” and kill for the Rebels on Orpheus, a planet where red sand hides the shiny minerals everyone’s fighting over (and he’s blind, only seeing in infrared). Enter Anouk, an 18-year-old Gravedigger (they bury war victims - a real romantic job) who finds Mark half-dead and decides he’s her fixer-upper boyfriend. Fictional Derek (her stepdad) is all, “Nope, he’s a killing machine!” and I nodded so hard my neck and back still hurt. My daughter’s only a one-year-old right now, but down the road if she tries to drag home a guy who’s tried to stab himself with scissors, I’m building her new room in a tower in the back yard and digging a moat around it!
The plot’s romance isn’t gooey at all - rather it lubricates this gritty sci-fi rollercoaster. When Mark is betrayed by his brain-voice and gets all shot up, Anouk and Derek take him to a shady hospital run by Doc Benton, a doctor who’s basically a sci-fi pawn shop owner. Anouk’s wiping Mark’s face with a sponge and whispering sweet nothings, while Derek and I are both thinking, “Girl, he’s got ‘bad idea’ written in neon on his face.” Elaine’s romance roots shine in moments like Anouk kissing Mark’s cheek and making him blush like Robocop at a prom. But later on things turn dark when Mark’s chemical cocktails turn a sweet shower kiss into life and death situation. Derek yeets him into the tiles (to rapturous applause by one dad). That’s my man! Currently my daughter’s biggest threat is being parted from her security blanket for a diaper change, but I’m already prepping for the day she meets a boy who mistakes romance for some kind of combat move.
It’s like Elaine saw Dune, Robocop, and Foundation and thought, “Needs more smooching.” I agree! The war over Orpheus’s minerals is grim, with Derek’s Gravediggers cleaning up bodies, but the heart is Anouk and Mark’s romance, complete with tropes like forbidden love and “I can fix him!” vibes. The tonal whiplash - going from tender embraces to Mark trying to self-terminate to Lightbreakers kidnapping Anouk is as audacious as it is successful. Despite the barrier of the internet, I often imagined this sci-fi dystopian epic written on a rusty hull panel but in cute flowing script from a glitter pen.
I like Mark and he is much like many of my characters here on substack (and some still in hiding in my unpublished book). But Derek, I get his protectiveness. He’s burying corpses while worrying his little girl might elope with a beserker who could bench-press a spaceship and suffers more bluescreen bugs than a beta version of Windows Vista. I’m not digging graves (yet), but I’m already side-eyeing every kid at the playground like they’re hiding combat-enhancement surgical scars and plotting to steal my daughter’s Goldfish. Derek’s biggest mistake was letting Anouk and Mark have unsupervised shower time - buddy, it’s the future, ever hear of cameras, drones, or remote locks?! But Derek’s got heart, even letting Mark peel a few potatoes (a scene made more wholesome by its absurd occurrence inside a warzone). A dad can’t help but want what his daughter wants, in the end - if not for this, the species would never propagate. And while I’d react much the same as Derek when someone takes his kid, I’d probably be slightly less “save her please” and more “where’s my bazooka?” even if Mark is more specialized for the job.
I won’t reveal too many spoilers but the most recent parts crank up this unfinished drama: Mark braves challenges for his saviors as he relearns human connection. Shady plans and heroic sacrifices are made, and cherished people come to great harm. Elaine’s enthusiasm and cliffhangers are infectious due to this unique blend of heart and havoc. And it’s not all love and war - Doc’s snark (calling Derek a fool for not explaining sex to Mark) and Mark’s “I don’t like porridge” line are particularly comedic gems. And as a dad, my takeaway? Keep the guns loaded, the house locked, and the biomechanical heartthrobs far from your daughter’s view - or at least sit them down for a power point presentation on human feelings first:
Lastly, please allow me a short self-promotion!
In a galaxy where humanity trades souls for circuits, meet one of the most powerful individuals in the Bellageist universe - a man whose towering intellect is matched only by his tragic flaws - and watch him set the stage for a universe-torching conflict. In his fight against “Ascent” our hero descends into [REDACTED] and becomes [REDACTED] - a sword that can never be resheathed. In an era where angels fall and machines rise, this fight isn’t just for survival - it’s to remind us what makes us better than glorified toasters:
Thanks for reading!
UPDATE: due to survey feedback, DREAD Reviews will now release most weeks on a Thursday. Also, those who responded asked for more fiction (DREAD issues get much more engagement but it took 2nd place in the survey). I am therefore reducing the number of mentions each issue from 14 to 10. This allows me to allocate more time to my fiction projects.
Thanks for your input!
DREAD Reviews Table of Contents (Searchable)
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Thank you for the review! This is an exceptionally rare privilege - I must've had like 3 reviews in the whole of history (and those were for coming second in the Lunar Awards 3 times in a row).
And you seriously are a fantastic reviewer.
I know just what you mean about humour and horror. There are quite a few humour-horror mashups I've encountered here and there on Substack. This is especially true for the cosmic horror subgenre, because it's just so alien and bizarre. When I first read HPL, about 30-odd years ago, I just never found it scary in the slightest. It was more humorous, and largely because of HPL's absurdly over-the-top use of language - all those adverbs and adjectives - ironically, the kind of use of language all these so-called 'writing experts' advise people not to do. But what do they know? HPL is still far more popular than they'll ever be.
I've also done a fair few sci-fi/humour mashups, so I get you completely about the sci-fi romp thing (see my 'Unofficial-K' section in particular - it's a series of such things with the same main character).
I've never been this scared to laugh