DREAD Reviews 21
Dad Reads and Examines Authors while Distracted
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What’s my opinion on AI? I like to assume the view of an amused outsider. I don’t see it as only a tool or a threat, but an inevitable chapter in our evolutionary saga, due to come sooner or later. The outcome to me is pretty much the same - I don’t know if this future comes soon, but whether we merge with machines, bow to them, or get steamrolled by them, legacy humanity is in for a big change. This kind of thing has happened before and it will happen again - perhaps true AI will top the biggest change of them all - the agricultural revolution.
What direction will the semantics of our monkey-based species take as we reference this new development? Humanity’s a jealous primate, clutching its evolutionary crown like a toddler with a prized toy. Will we let silicon sentience share the stage? Or will our million-year instinct for survival turn us into paranoid saboteurs, smashing circuits to preserve our fragile egos? Both, of course - but history’s ultimately unkind to those who resist change. Some will ignore this at their own peril - I say this not to demean them, for there will be others incautious in their embrace who will likewise see ruin.
Humanity’s survival hinges on a radical rebrand: perhaps Homo Sapien becomes Homo Cyberneticus. Whether through implants, consciousness uploads, or full-on robotic fusion, in the long run it’s inevitable that we shed our meaty shells partially or in full to join the machine. Call it evolution or extinction - either way, it’s still the end of “us” as we currently know ourselves. The purists will cry “death” while the optimists call it “ascension.” Tomato, tomahto - it’s all semantics, a circus of fear and hype. It doesn’t matter our word choice or where we place the goalposts, for humanity’s long-term future is tied to the machine. We might choose to do this, or we might be forced at the point of a gun, or we might simply be replaced.
Imagine if extraterrestrials were to buzz our skies in the near future, their intentions unknown. Panicked, we now cling to our AI creations like life rafts, driving to enhance them and forge a shaky alliance in preparation to fend off these cosmic interlopers. But this sci-fi plot twist shouldn’t make us feel safe, as it only delays the inevitable. Machines don’t need us to face aliens - if anything, we need them.
AI is both a blessing. It is also an existential threat. Both these aspects must be handled responsibly. But in the long-run, our future is guaranteed to be unrecognizeable to the present. Here we go, bye bye, much like the dinosaurs. Unlike them we can at least be proud for bootstrapping the next stage.
Even if we mishandle the transition and get left behind, entropy is still coming for the robots at the same speed it was coming for us. Entropy always has the last laugh. Maybe this will make some purists feel better.
Oh, here’s a few stories I liked:
Josh Tatter’s added another section to his serial Valley of the Old Gods. I’ve previously featured the first two parts of this serial which can be →found here←. Part 3 brings grimdark suspense, piles of corpses, and a surprise zombie hand reaching for your boots. We also get a warrior bromance stirring amidst a pile of severed limbs tall enough to make a US Civil War battlefield hospital jealous.
Ardysseos (picture your grumpy dad on a camping trip) and his buds saunter down a haunted valley so evil even a modern GPS would scream at you to turn back. Hoplites, warrior priests, and tribal captains confront horrors painted in the prose of a goth artist with a thing for funeral pyres. The smoke “meandering languidly” into the sky is but one taste of this moody broodiness.
After a morning of mourning (RIP eight Medjai who went toe-to-toe with some Godzilla-sized old gods), our heroes track their savage enemies to a creepy ancient city that’s like a Machu Picchu imitation designed by a serial killer. The mood accelerates at the speed of a hungover tortoise, but the blood pressures rises when the party stumbles into a courtyard-slash-corpse-convention. Tatter’s got a knack for making you gag, especially when Ardysseos, our fearless leader, decides to play amateur archaeologist with a pile of bodies. One of those “corpses” has other plans - or maybe it just wanted to brighten this scene with a welcoming hug?
The characters are your standard cool archetypes - but I’d still enjoy grabbing a beer with them even if it’s just to talk some feelings. That’s the delight of a serial, because maybe Josh has such a scene coming. Snappy dialogue like “You won’t like the answer” delivers just the right amount of ominous character-sass without interrupting the focus of this martial journey into madness.
Where Tatter really shines is in making the Valley of the Old Gods feel like the kind of place you’d never visit without a hazmat suit and a bible-gripping flock of Spanish inquisitors.
Unless you have read → Part 1 and Part 2 ← you will feel like you walked into a D&D campaign mid-session. This is perfect for readers who like their fantasy with a little bit of “OH NO, WHY IS THAT MOVING?!” tacked on.
Grab your falcata, recite a prayer to Jor, and dive in:
Imagine waking up every morning not to check your face in a mirror, but to squint through a periscope like you’re captaining a submarine in an urban sea of dystopian dread. Our pal X2453-202Z (I’m going to call him “Bean” to avoid spraining my brain) navigates a grim, sun-scorched world where mirrors aren’t just for fixing your hair - they’re your only defense against blindness and cancer.
Bean, our periscope-toting hero, swivels his reflective contraption to dodge “rays of blindness” like he’s the target of a solar whack-a-mole. The world is experienced from this submerged view much like a submarine peeking at cruise ships, and split between the city regions of ramshackle Paraíso and snooty Genzi. I chuckled at the idea of everyone lugging mirrors around like life rafts because some schizophrenic genius figured out they block the sun’s evil mojo.
The writing’s got quirky charm even when it’s grim. Lines like “the mirror has been mocking him all these years” had me picturing Bean arguing with his periscope like it’s his insubordinate first mate. Bean’s intercourse with his cousin J5623-615R (I’ll call him “Jase,”), is snappy and dry, like two seamen bickering over the last can of sardines. Jase’s apology: “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Bean” is assumed to be delivered with deadpan regret and I imagined a sitcom moment where we laugh at how serious they are. The doctor they meet sneaks around in a maintenance uniform - a rogue periscope repairman?
But let’s talk more about the periscope lifestyle. The story never drops the ball here - the immersion is complete. If I had to navigate my life like Bean and Jase, peering through mirrored tubes to avoid skin lesions and the surveillance state, I’d probably trip over every lego and bang my shin into every coffee table until the eventual day I walked straight over the window-sill from the top of a tall building. I could almost feel the strain from Bean’s lugging a mirror everywhere to look at things, groaning and rubbing my neck imagining Bean holding his breath like a diver to avoid “unprotected seeing.”
The alphanumeric names might make you feel like you’re decoding encrypted intel written in Russian (I think they caused me to forget my social security and my wife’s phone numbers again). Still, the grimdark prose and offbeat world make this minor impediment worth it. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to walk down a city street like a paranoid submarine captain, dodging cancer and betrayal with nothing but a mirror and some gumption, this story’s your ticket:
"There Might Be Lions," or as I like to call it: “A Drugged Dance Party with Machetes and Nazis.” This punchy tale grabs you by the keffiyeh, spins you around, and leaves you wondering if you survived a revolution or just had a bad acid trip.
Wild, sweat-soaked dancers, determined that the fun shall never end, decide to go punch some Nazis. Here I thought I would analyze some prose - but, instead, the pages just started slapping me in the face: “They danced without prejudice, and they carried guns without prejudice.” To whirling, electric imagery and the “shook-boomed” bass, we don’t know if we’re hallucinating or going to war. Ambidextrous rebels wielding machetes, pistols, and cargo pants, hunt down some conveniently waiting Nazis with “warpigs on their helmets.” The socco showdown feels like a cyberpunk-turned-Mad Max fever dream. You feel the heat of the alley and the glint of Elias’s gold teeth and might even begin to see yourself as a pin-eyed maniac with an axe.
Johnston breeds his haunting world with a dose of whiplash - “I am Pale Rider - I am become Death” pirouettes to “they are all ghosts now.” First it’s a party, then it’s murdering time, then suddenly the story chugs a bottle of whiskey and sobs in the corner. What just happened? Zero context, maximum chaos. Why do these rebels fight Nazis in a futuristic socco? Who cares, they’re Nazis! But Do we know who they are or what their cause is? Not a clue, but their legendary names came straight out of some heavy metal album cover! This story doesn’t hold your hand; it shoves you into the mosh pit and says, “Breathe it, punk!”
The story screeches to a halt with a shrug and a mic-drop. I could almost hear the wink as Johnston leaves the stage, a man whose art needs no explanation. Who needs prose when you can turn a sentence into a Molotov cocktail? I dare you to go and embrace this sliver of madness:
(Author)
Fiction by Mark Watson (Publication)
Mark Watson hoofs it out of the park with this first chapter of Larry Lancashire, a muddy and unhinged tale featuring a barnyard pig seeking professional soccer fame.
Larry, the eponymous hero, is a pig with a belly like a beach ball and dreams that are bigger than an American tractor convention. He’s a little oinker with ambitions to play proper football, and no amount of bitter slop will dampen his fire. This boot-wearing porker is written with unmatched charm, and you might just cheer aloud when he reduces a century-old barn to splinters with one sod-shattering kick. “Did you just... thundersmash me barn?”
The supporting menagerie is suitably mad, hoofed, furred, and feathery. Goosey the goose honks profanities at a scarecrow ref named Derek (why is my name so popular with writers? Mark also writes about a billionaire launched into space by the same name). The chickens are rule-breaking divas riding illegal jam-jar jet packs (I’ve been a soccer referee for 30 years at the semi-pro level and I’m thinking I wouldn’t pull out a card for this). And the the cow pulling off a rainbow flick - move over, Ronaldo, Bessie’s coming for your crown.
Each animal is a distinct, unhinged personality, and the humor is relentless. The barn’s dramatic demise (complete with a walrus-trombone sound effect) and Farmer Parker’s emergency hat and sardine-stuffed pockets in particular had me in stitches. Yet, beneath the slapstick is found a wholesome warmth. Larry’s vision of Barnley FC, stitched from old curtains and fueled by heart is almost poetic. Almost. The llama’s shifty side-eye keeps things from getting too mushy, thank heavens.
I may referee at a higher level much of the time but I never say no to a lower-level assignment that may come my way. That said, I can safely say I’ve never had to referee a farm-full of jetpack-strapped flightless birds or characters you worry might eat the goalposts. That’s part of its charm - this isn’t a story for those who want pristine pitches or sensible plots. It’s for anyone who’s ever dreamed big while covered in mud and wearing boots that don’t fit.
Watson’s crafted a barnyard epic that’s equal parts absurd and inspiring. It packs enough wit to make even the grumpiest of sheep crack a ba-a-a and a smile. Here’s hoping Barnley FC’s makeshift uniforms hold up better than the barn did:
“The Art of Not Arriving.” How I wish I’d stumbled across this a few days earlier when I had the flu. I could wistfully muse “already adrift” with thoughts “looping endlessly” as I lurched through my kitchen delirious with a 104-degree fever. This story might have hit me like Tylenol for the soul, but alas, I was too busy hallucinating nonsensical lemon-toothpaste soup recipes to appreciate it at the time.
The essay pictures the mind as a maze - corridors folding and fracturing, truths flickering… I get it, beautifully put! But when I was sick, my maze was less existential and more… linoleum. I roamed my kitchen, half-drawn, half-erased, angling between the seams of the floor pattern like they were physical barriers. I chased something nonphysical, a ghost of a decision - did I come here to make plain toast, or just moan into a dish towel? No quiet confusion here - just a sweaty, trembling, unhinged quest to find the orange juice I swore I’d poured and placed on the counter.
Lingering in the drift, beauty found in the not-knowing. I would have truly loved to reframe my illness this way. But my “lingering” involved staring at a can of chicken soup for what felt like 20 minutes, wondering not only where the can opener was, but also was the can truly separate from its contents? Were this container’s nourishing carbs and proteins a metaphor for my life? The can called me to rest in the drift, to see in the dim light, but I could barely squint through the NyQuil haze and mistake my 4-year-old son’s discarded pants for a life coach. No offense to skinny buttcheeks-bear, but he’s no sage, no matter how hallowed and wise his smiling gaze might appear, and his quiet whispers were utter nonsense.
These words are a gentle nudge to embrace the wandering, to stop chasing resolution. It’s a lovely thought, and hopefully its message reaches you, reader, before your next descent into illness (or madness). Maybe next time I’m feverish and demented from the flu, I’ll channel this and float through my kitchen at 3 A.M. like a philosophical poet instead of a deranged, muttering raccoon:
I’m convinced this story is secretly about the perils of office politics in a magical call center. It’s got scheming interns, grumpy managers, a cursed photocopier that might just open a portal to the void, and much, much more.
In Part 1, we’re introduced to Maestre Belsay, a grumpy magical IT guy who’d rather debug ancient tomes than deal with Chollerford, the nepotistic intern who’s all swagger and no quill (“Nepoti” - code for nepotism trainee?). This apprentice’s snooty accent and bejeweled hand-waving warn us he’s too fabulous for this internship, but then he gets roped into playing stenographer for Guyzance, the retiring CEO who drops this fortune-cookie bombshell: “There are other realms than ours… Should a door be opened: close it.” At first I thought this was about keeping the break room fridge shut to avoid mysterious smells from alternate dimensions. But seriously, this cryptic warning, delivered like watercooler wisdom, could also be the caption on a motivational poster for preventing wizard HR complaints.
The workplace drama approaches sitcom: Belsay’s passive-aggressive shade, Chollerford’s entitled whining, and that bug-sting face-slap moment (a medieval equivalent of tripping over the power cord during a presentation). Sending Chollerford to scribe the Last of Maestre Guyzance, the retiring CEO of Magic Inc., is petty office revenge - Belsay knows the kid’s handwriting is as legible as a drunk raven’s, ensuring Guyzance’s legacy gets a typo-riddled send-off. And Chollerford sneaking a peek in the Satchel (stuffed with ancient Post-it notes) is him stealing the office Wi-Fi password thinking he’s cracked the company safe. Maestre’s no fool, though, and plays some 4d chess machinations: “Here, kid, file this in the ‘Never Gonna Understand It’ drawer!” Oh we’re sure to crack this now, and it will be our own fault what happens next.
→Part 2← cranks this magic cubicle drama up to a full-on corporate horror show. Belsay fixates on the black circle artifact like a sysadmin obsessed with a mysterious server glitch (can a computer bug summon Cthulhu?). The journal entries about poking rods into a void and accidentally guillotining a serpent’s head - imagine closing a ticket only to realize you’ve unleashed an interdimensional computer virus. Meanwhile, Chollerford’s scheme with Corbis over stolen papers is straight out of a corporate espionage thriller, with the “trade secrets” being an alchemical get-rich-quick scheme. The scene with Count Otho is a grotesque highlight. His “punishment” of the Baron feels like an HR nightmare - a toxic boss who thinks team-building involves public humiliation. Poor Guyzance’s corpse melting into a puddle of goo is quite the metaphor for managerial burnout. The story’s mix of petty rivalries, forbidden artifacts, and creepy supernatural hints is a hilarious and twisted take on workplace dysfunction. I can’t wait for Part 3 to see if Belsay’s hand gets stuck in the void or if Chollerford’s gold-lust lands him some kind of inquisitorial performance review:
(Author) (Publication)
Equal parts spooky and savory and served with a side of Midwestern charm, this short short story appears as if written by the ghost of a coupon-clipping grandma. Blending the mundane with the macabre, the narrator kneads ground beef and turkey while under an unholy influence.
Grammy was a practical, butter-loving matriarch. She died, but when we make one of her favorite recipes, her specter floats in with a smile “hung on her face like it wasn’t hers” and casually drops lines like, “You finally got it right,” hovering in critique. I have this image in my mind of Norman Rockwell, demented from a bad case of covid, splashing one of his paintings with tomato soup to turn candid scenes into a zombie horror show.
The writing, “Garlic repels the dead and overbearing relatives” in the real-life recipe elicits cackles. Speaking of the recipe (promised in every short by this publication), it might be the real winner here - a sassy, step-by-step guide that looks half Betty Crocker, half séance manual. “Shape the loaf like smoothing soil over something freshly buried” - frame that on your fridge!
The pacing is tighter than a Tupperware seal, building up to a perfectly timed knock that made me sit up and check my front door. The creepy, ominous mantra, “It always comes in threes,” is delicious - I’m going to be careful about how many items I put on future grocery lists until I’m ready to summon my ancestors:
This misty, murky masterpiece has me checking room corners for sentient fog and side-eyeing my laptop. Did it just whisper: Don’t look at me directly?
This creepypasta gem, lovingly recovered by the fictional “Piper Callahan” and posted to his YouTube channel “Unseen Signals,” shows its The Blair Witch Project roots from the get-go.
Blair Witch Project taught us to fear shaky camcorders and twig sculptures. Verdant Butterfly ups the ante with fog and haunting shapes in the mist. This mist pulses, warps reality, and submerges your psyche like a toothy soup. Trees do yoga here, and I bet if you brought a GPS inside it would slow down and start speaking backwards. Our boy who recorded this found footage, “Emory Knox,” is a chain-smoking cryptid hunter who’s one bad motel stay away from a nervous breakdown. He dives into this fog without hearing X-Files music (how could he know, he’s living it, not watching it on TV!). His mission? To prove Bigfoot’s got a fog-enforced NDA. Spoiler: Emory’s camera glitches and his notes turn into an internet captcha: DO NOT LOOK AT IT DIRECTLY. He then vanishes faster than a phone battery in a horror flick.
The story shines in its patchwork brilliance: YouTube logs, torn journal pages, a shady sheriff’s report, and a forum post from “SeeThruGlass93.” It’s the kind of tale you’d find on r/UnsolvedMysteries, upvoted to all hell with comments like, “My cousin’s friend’s dog saw the Murker in 2014, true story bro.” The multi-media format is a fine internet horror catnip, and I’m here for more of it - soon as I replace my router after dousing it in holy water.
While Emory’s out there filming himself, and his laptop pulls a poltergeist, and the fog outside does interpretive dance, Piper Callahan, the fictional YouTuber, is the cherry on top. She plays the “I’m totally fine just a little cursed” investigator role with her own shaky cam, utterly missing the creepy shadow in her own monitor. It’s horror-ception watching someone livestream another’s horror movie without noticing they’re queued for a jump-scare. I cackled when the slowed-down audio revealed the Murker’s sweet ASMR - nothing says eldritch terror like a fog monster with a cozy, dulcet podcaster voice.
The Murker’s vague enough to be a metaphor for my student loans and the participants have little backstory, but this is generally what makes creepypasta work - it’s less about polished arcs and more about making the reader afraid of what’s behind their computer screen. Now please excuse me while I google how to exorcise my browser history:
(Author) (Publication)
This poem captures the raw experience of being thrust into an unfamiliar world. Forced into existence cold, hungry, and yearning for connection, a stranger’s gaze offers fleeting warmth. Shaken by unkind forces, we stumble into a fragmented reality even as we confront the destruction of our past. We close with a quiet farewell to familiar faces as they fade from memory.
(SomeoneGotAbductedByAliens):
My top spot this week is deservedly at the bottom here this time. It’s a review of a review (reviewception!). But this isn’t just any review, reader - it’s a ride.
Also, I must humbly lay down my pen and bow out. The brilliance of this other reviewer - their fevered prose and cult-like devotion to the target author - renders my attempts at wit into a limp handshake in a clown convention.
Keith’s review is one standard arm-wave above the mean.
’s universe has clearly driven him mad - I can only dream of aspiring to such unhinged gusto. The rare day I’ve taken the full suite of pills for my many mental conditions, I’m still only capable of writing like a 70 year old luddite impersonating an Amish terminator whose idea of a car chase is offroading a clown-packed van into the Helmand River - then choosing that mid-air moment to pen an existential manifesto of doubt. Meanwhile, this maestro of mania named Keith stalks you down the sidewalk half-naked in a DOOM Fiction™ shirt worn as pants (I’m sure this is coming to his website eventually). Keith spits magazine cud and preaches the gospel of the Eighth Block Tower “bull%!@#” with the fervor of a street prophet high on something that makes used syringes glow green.Keith’s eloquence, (if you can call it that, I tried really hard to find a fitting word here) has the DNA of a trainwreck - but the most beautiful version of mass-disaster, the kind where every car gets utterly destroyed with a perfect 100% casualty rate all at the same hyper-compressed point of failure. Sentences tumble over each other like a pile-up in a surrealist demolition derby where no one’s getting out alive. Keith’s captured the sticky, infectious weirdness of Pauley’s world - purple TVs, cockroach dust, Nintendo-fueled mayhem - with raw manic energy which makes my own reviews read like the first draft of a tax manual.
Pauley has been on my radar, but there’s far too many writers on here and not enough keys on my keyboard to even faceroll through them all. Thanks to Keith, though, I’m instantly a fan - and I haven’t even read anything yet! (Actually, I have read plenty of his work, but that was months before I started DREAD Reviews).
Keith is painfully funny. I laughed out loud at the “cold doughy sting” of a severed arm slap; then I cried when I realized my own jokes land like soggy breadsticks in comparison. Therefore, I concede, gracious reader, to this literary lunatic who’s clearly mainlined the DOOM Fiction hum. Keith hasn’t just reviewed Pauley’s work, he’s become a resident of the Eighth Block, and all I can do is snap blurry photos like some paranormal-seeking tourist. If you want a review that gives you a couple chuckles and head-scratchers, I’m your guy. But if you want to feel the stories crawl into your brain like a slimy ear-worm, Keith’s your man (and if you don’t want this I’m sorry, it’s too late, there’s a faucet in your ear now):
Lastly my self-promotion.
In a galaxy where humanity teeters on the edge of extinction, Dr. Jann Sorenson - ex-human, current shiny robot, and self-proclaimed humanist with a side gig as a spy - betrays his posthuman masters to save the species he left behind. Guided by a vision that’s equal parts dazzling and “oh no, we’re doomed,” Jann risks his immortal soul in a dangerous game of deception, wielding forbidden technology and a captive human warrior in defiance of fate itself. But as war consumes the stars and his enemies close in, can one man’s rebellion rewrite destiny - or will his sins damn them all?
“By Angels Born” features perhaps the most secretive and influential characters in the expansive Bellageist universe: Jann Sorenson. He has roles in other stories, including my unpublished book Bellageist: Burning Angels and Bellageist: Chains of a Demigod. But so far this short is the only thing exclusively about him. I hope to expand this short into a serial or perhaps even a novel in the near future. Please take a read:
Thanks for reading!
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DREAD 19 DREAD 20 DREAD 21 DREAD 22 DREAD 23
Another phenomenal DREAD newsletter! An eclectic mix of familiar faces and brand new discoveries for me. And of course, one of the best and most hilarious writing voices I've ever read. I always love reading these. 👏
Absolutely gobsmacked. Thank you ever so. You've made my foggy little tale feel legendary. 🦋