DREAD Reviews 23
Dad Reads and Examines Authors while Distracted
DREAD Reviews Table of Contents (Searchable)
DREAD 21 DREAD 22 DREAD 23 DREAD 24
Today’s blurb is about how a medieval lady not only fights in an era dominated by men - but wins. The Dunbar Castle showdown of 1338 is a siege that a certain Black Agnes turns into a full-on Looney Tunes episode. This heroine makes combative sass look cool several centuries ahead of Buffy Summers’ silver screen appearance, with the added benefit of being real (Buffy’s not, sorry). Agnes throws so much shade at her English oppressors during this siege they have little choice but to pack up and march home crying.
Dunbar Castle’s dad is away. With its lord off doing lordly things, it puts Agnes Randolph - aka the queen of clapbacks - in charge of its defense. William Montagu, the English Earl of Salisbury during the Second War for Scottish Independence, decides its practically unguarded with just a lady in charge. He marches his huge army past the walls where the defenders can see it then sends his demand for a surrender. He expects Agnes to fling open the gates and curtsy and hand over the keys. He’s already surveying his future property while he waits a response from a hill nearby, posing for his portrait under a “Mission Accomplished” banner.
But Agnes, upon hearing Montagu’s demands, channels her inner poet and sends this mic-drop of a reply: “Of Scotland's King I haud my house, I pay him meat and fee, And I will keep my gude auld house, while my house will keep me.” Translation: “I’m a fan of the Scottish king, I’ve got snacks, and this castle’s mine.”
Montagu is not amused. He orders his men to erect the artillery machines without delay. The English lob rocks and shot of various types in a live action remake of Angry Birds. But Dunbar Castle is well-built, and between barrages, Agnes saunters out with her squad of ladies-in-waiting to literally dust off the ramparts (translated):
With a towel a damsel Well dressed and overjoyed, Wiped the wall where they might see, To make them more annoyed.
It’s like they’re wiping the tables at some fast food joint to preserve their 4.9 star rating on Yelp. Messy eaters, these English!
Dismayed, but undeterred, Montagu huddles with his engineers for a night of conspiratorial whispering. The sounds of of saws and hammers erupt in the dark. The next morning the English roll up with a hastily constructed “sow” - basically a fancy shed on wheels which shields its crew while it docks and hacks at the walls.
Agnes, not missing a beat, orders her men to yeet back one of Montagu’s own catapult rocks onto it, smashing it like a piñata. English soldiers scatter from the ruin, bruised, limping, and chased by arrows that bite at their heels. Agnes hollers across the field: “Look! The sow has brought a litter of English pigs!” (queue a medieval laugh track).
Montagu, seeing the devastating effect of Agnes’ weapons-grade tongue on his men’s morale, tries his best to match her wit. An arrow zips past him and nails one of his men right in the trunk, slaying him instantly, and Montagu quips: “There comes one of my lady's tire pins; Agnes's love shafts go straight to the heart.” Oof - a self-own is not the viral moment you want here, buddy!
Desperate, Montagu turns to bribery, sending secret messages in an attempt to sweet-talk one of Agnes’s garrison soldiers to leave the gate open in exchange for a fat stack of coins. The soldier plays along, like, “Sure, bro, comin’ right up.”
It’s a trap, of course, the soldier immediately passing the letter on to Agnes who giggles and says “Write him back, say this… no, wait, add that! Then…” Long story short, Montagu pulls up in the middle of the night expecting to walk straight through the gate. But the portcullis suddenly slams down just an inch away from his nose, nearly reducing Montagu’s foot to a toe-kebab. A few of Montagu’s men get stuck inside, and Agnes, probably sipping some medieval equivalent for tea, calls out to their sheepish embarrassment: “Farewell, Montagu, I intended that you should have supped with us!”
Montagu’s retreats and is left grasping at straws. Desperate for a solution and deciding to sacrifice his honor to save some face, he reveals he’s captured Agnes’s brother. The man’s dragged up in view of the castle walls, his hood is thrown back, and Montagu shouts his intent to execute the lady’s brother if she doesn’t surrender.
Agnes, ice-cold, shrugs and says, “Meh, I’m his heir. Kill him and I’ll be rich!”
The English are shook. Montagu is not a monster and cries a little bit when Agnes calls his bluff. This lady’s playing 4D chess while they English are stuck on checkers.
But winter rolls in, and Montagu thinks perhaps not all hope is lost - perhaps the garrison will starve to death. But in what is perhaps the worst military intelligence failure of the 14th century, he doesn’t know Dunbar’s walls have a cute little seaside sally door placed for high tide. Agnes has been running a medieval DoorDash this whole time. To rub it in, on one cold and windy night, Agnes sends one of her ladies-in-waiting to Montagu’s camp. Expecting a long-awaited white flag, Montagu calls together his men to receive the good news - and instead is shocked when the lady offers him a warm, fresh-baked loaf and a bottle of wine stamped with the current year’s vintage. Bon appétit, losers!
Montagu and his men are at rock bottom, already contemplating quitting and going home. Just when things can’t get worse, a man by the name of Sir Alexander Ramsay sneaks into the castle by sea, reinforcing it with 40 fresh battle-hardened bros. At dawn, he and his men dare to sally out, torching Montagu’s siege camp like riot at the Burning Man festival. The only thing lower than the Englishmen’s obliterated morale after this is their supply situation - “All we have left is some extra crispy toast.” Those besieging become besieged themselves.
It’s been five months of this gritty standoff seasoned by Agne’s nonstop roasts (both figurative and literal). Having come to starve the enemy to submission, Montagu finds that he is now the one soon to starve, left no choice but to slink back home in disgrace. His wallet’s lighter, his martial reputation’s trashed, and he mutters soft poetry like a sad bard:
“She makes a stir in tower and trench, That brawling, boisterous, Scottish wench; Came I early, came I late. I found Agnes at the gate.”
This tale is 100% legit and dirty allegations of Scottish embellishment have yet to be proven, all baseless lies spread by Montagu’s descendants and Montagu apologizers. Fake news!
Shocking. Writing a foreword is a deathmatch with your own soul - here’s Graeme McAllister’s "Iron Transmutation" from Chaos Charms - laying it bare like we don’t already know. With all the subtlety of a sledgehammer hitting an anvil, Graeme explains how penning the opening to a book hurls us into a metaphorical furnace.
Dear me - I never thought such a project could conjure such visceral chaos. There I am, clutching tea and biscuits, pushing my 1-year-old’s stroller with my free toe, expecting a story about crafting the foreword to be a gentle stroll through literary pleasantries. Instead, McAllister describes his draft like “crumbling iron’s transmutation / Rose coloured and molten.” Wow, it was an alchemical bloodbath all along? Yawn, how predictable - everyone knows scribbling a few introductory words to your thing is going to result in some sparking molten metal and invoke existential dread.
And then there’s the “blood bears air to imagination,” as if an author crafting a foreword requires constant transfusions to keep their brain from flatlining. Honestly, it’s so cliché to think of wrestling with a blank page like a life-or-death duel, pumping oxygen into “souls” just to survive. McAllister’s “duelling brushes, dreams and reason” only confirms this tired trope: there’s nothing polite to writing a foreword’s prose - it’s a cage match between your sanity and fey goblins of wild-eyed inspiration.
You thought it was already too on-the-nose, but then we’re hit with “skulls sparkle, pulsing passion.” Look, I already have a headache (lots of rainy pressure clouds and pollen here) - I don’t need extra. Please keep your throbbing head, high heart rate, and your deadline panic to yourself.
Naturally, writing a foreword is going to be a bloody, skull-sparking mess. I give Iron Transmutation five unsurprising melodramas out of five:
Here I thought Brothers Grimm’s tale “The Magic Porridge Pot” was the gold standard of “whoops, we overdid it,” but William Pauley III’s “The Blob King” slathers that fairy tale with neon-fueled, blob-tastic insanity. Pauley’s horror short takes the Grimm’s warning about unchecked excess and cranks it to eleven, serving up a cautionary tale about a pint-sized prankster morphing into a tentacle-sprouting blob smothering the whole place with his flabby reign.
In “The Magic Porridge Pot,” a charmed pot churns out delicious porridge until it floods a village because someone forgot to issue the “stop” command. Similarly, Pauley’s Eighth Block Tower gets steamrolled by Benny, a bratty kid whose antics escalate from swiping wallets to crowning himself king atop a throne of pilfered furniture. The porridge parallel hits full boil when Benny chugs “tower neon,” some kind of radioactive energy drink (I assume Monster®). Like the pot that won’t quit, Benny’s neon binge transforms him into an ever-expanding blob of mini Cthulhu-ness, oozing over the rooftop and plunging the tower into perpetual darkness.
But if Benny’s blob-bod is the porridge, the residents are the villagers who can’t stop slurping. In the Grimm tale, folks wade through porridge soup, happily munching their way to freedom. Likewise, Eighth Block’s tenants treat Benny’s reign like the block party of the century, piling books, records, and blankets around his throne because, apparently, life’s so dull they’d rather worship a slimy guzzle-tyrant than dust off their old furniture and be done with it. Hypnotized by the building’s new creaky, splintering charm, they cheer Benny’s sagging tentacles while they starve in the dark. Forget getting out - these guys are sprinting toward death and destitution, grinning like they’re earning loyalty perks. Pauley’s dark humor skewers their devotion, leaving the reader to decide whether they’re brainwashed by neon fumes or just thrilled at the chance for a break from life’s tedious dystopian reruns.
Similar to the Blob King’s enigmatic authority, Pauley’s conversational prose hypnotizes the reader like some cursed cookbook: it starts sweet like the cozy Grimm’s tale of porridge, lulling you with harmless prankster vibes, then wham - now you’re swallowing a blob-stew so horrific it’s actually quite hilarious:
Hoot needs some daily small-fly humor? Well, you need not lark no feather - take a beak at the talon-ted Kent’s nest of daily typed pages. But I suspect these crows aren’t just “pun”ting the day’s business down the road. Their bad jokes might actually be code - they’re plan-wing a real “murder” with a side of fowl caw-medy. Watch out, bystanders - this probable caws might just erupt into a feathery shootout:
Buckle up - we’re grieving today. Imagine Mike Tyson punching you in the gut, saying sorry, then handing you a tissue. That’s the size of the feels I have after reading Maryellen Brady’s “Ground Zero.” This piece hits like a tanker truck full of salty tears, and I mean that in the best way possible.
Maryellen writes about death of Bert while witnessing the audacity of life marching on. Wind chimes jingle, birds chirp - did no one get the memo? It’s humorless-comedy levels of unfair. This short piece challenges me to imagine losing equally dear to me. I’m quite certain I don’t have half Maryellen’s strength of prose or will to publish, were this to happen.
The descriptions here are sharp enough to cut off your eyelashes. You’ll swear you’re there with Bert’s cardigan, hearing that squeaky floorboard, and smelling the coffee leftovers from his last-used mug. At least we have Bert 2.0 - the son Parker, dressed over the couch like a human security blanket, sharing dad’s light-sleeping quirks and all. The haunting here comes not from ghosts or passions denied, but from the stubbornness of life’s little details - like those smudged reading glasses that refuse to let Bert fade away.
This essay is a masterclass in making you sob while also making you mad at the nerve of a blue sky daring to be pretty. Maryellen’s got me heartbroken - and her loss didn’t even happen to me. I’m happy she granted the world this little peek into the aftermath of life’s cruelest inevitability, and I thank her for it. If you read this, maybe don’t do it in public, unless you’re cool with strangers asking why you’re sobbing into your phone or keyboard. I’m not crying, you’re crying.:
I’m reading “Why Poetry Is Magic” and see not just a whimsical ode to poetry’s soul-soothing powers, but also the blueprint for solving the world’s traffic woes! Forget self-driving cars or wider highways - these are merely overpriced, time-consuming band-aids. Lemon Jelly Press proposes a much better and more permanent solution for traffic jams, accidents, and road rage!
As we all know, poetry “stills the soul” in this “fast-moving world,” inviting us to slow down, breathe, and savor words like fine wines. So, imagine if every driver on I-405 at rush hour had a copy of
’s Moon taped to their dashboard. Instead of honking and tailgating, we murmur something like: “Line by line. Breath by breath” (imagine Rachel’s significantly better prose there). Soon, nobody’s cutting anyone off, instead we’re busy pondering a metaphor about lunar softness. Traffic jams transform into poetic pauses for collective enlightenment. The assertion that poetry “meanders” and “takes its time” might be delivered like secret code, but to me it screams from the rooftops an obvious truth - our society can and will achieve zen-like patience during a 5-mile-per-hour crawl!Poetry is a “spell” that engages “tongue and ear and eye and lungs.” Traffic-safety gold! Picture it: a driver starts to drift into the next lane, distracted by their phone. But then, their car’s poetry-enabled AI (patent pending) blasts a sonnet through the speakers, sparking the brain in recitation of iambic pentameter. Eyes now on the road, lungs pumping, tongue twisting - another potential accident is averted.
A single well-written line can linger “for years.” Highway billboards should from now on be programmed with haikus so memorable that drivers stay alert and attentive just to avoid missing the next one:
Soft moon lights my way Yield to love, not rage, dear friend Merge in gentle grace
Crash rates plummet! Insurance companies weep with joy!
Poetry offers a long-sought solution to road rage as well. The right kind of prose “brings us back to ourselves, to each other, to something bigger.” Should some dude in a pickup flip you off for signaling too late, just roll down your window and shout this couplet: “In stillness we find strength / To let the anger pass.” He’ll be so baffled by your lyrical serenity that he’ll forget why he was mad - road rage to road sage. Poetry’s subtle power “doesn’t demand attention” but “lingers,” proving its use in de-escalating freeway feuds. No more fist-shaking is necessary. Instead, feuding drivers can exchange stanzas like romanticized knights in a chivalric duel.
Lemon Jelly Press suggests Moon is a “luminous little book” for “slow mornings” and “finding your way back home.” But why stop at mornings? Install Moon-themed poetry dispensers at toll booths - pay your fee, grab your receipt complete with magical verse, and glide into traffic with a heart full of softness. Or mandate poetry recitals for driver’s license renewals. Can’t nail the rhyme scheme? Back to the bus, buddy. The article’s call to “pause” and “remember we are still human” cries to us to turn every red light into an opportunity for poetry. By the time the light turns green, everyone’s deep in self-analysis instead of peeling out recklessly.
“Why Poetry Is Magic” is underappreciated. With the right leadership it could revolutionize our roadways. Lemon Jelly Press may not have intended to, but they’ve gifted us a vision of a world where poetry transforms gridlock into group therapy, accidents into epiphanies, and road rage into rhyme. Let’s all pick up a copy of Moon, memorize a stanza, and make highways our new haven (disclaimer: do not actually recite poetry while moving unless your car is equipped with self-driving bard mode):
Misery shares the lease while Joy’s ghosting the group chat (again). Joy, my girl, commit!
Maddie’s introspective dive into our addiction parallels my living situation. You see, I have this clingy roommate named Misery - she’s far too comfortable, always zoning out on the couch with a beer or deep into a game of Fortnite on my computer (um, hello? I have work to do). Misery’s cool and all, but I’d much rather hang out with Joy, my best friend who’s always texting “On my way!” but then she rarely shows. Maddie’s piece has me laughing then crying at my emotional baggage. But I feel the nudge to evict this drama queen squatting in my house.
Let’s talk about Misery first. This gal’s got her feet on kicked up on my coffee table, eats my last bag of Doritos, and monologues “Remember that one time you tripped in front of your crush twenty-two years ago?” Maddie nails her vibe: she’s not just a guest; she’s in my five-year lease with an auto-renew clause (and I don’t recall the date in time to cancel it). Maddie’s “velvet cage” metaphor is spot-on - Misery’s annoying, but cozy, like another piece of furniture under the plush throws and dim lighting. But when she turns on the TV she only streams reruns of all my life’s worst moments. Maddie’s short makes me see why I keep signing the lease - Misery’s predictable, always there with a “Told you so” and a sad, familiar playlist. Maddie describes sinking into regrets like warm blankets, and yeah, I’ve been there, cuddling my mistakes like a body pillow.
But then there’s Joy - oh boy, is she a piece of work! She’s my wild-card friend who promises to roll through with confetti and good vibes but half the time she bails last minute with nothing but a mysterious text like: “Sry, got caught up!” Maddie hints about Joy’s potential, “cooking chocolate pancakes” or whispering through a locked door and it reminds me how Joy finally shows up at 2 a.m. with a tambourine and a piñata and I’m like: “Girl, go to bed, I have work tomorrow!”
Joy’s fleeting appearances are teased so well I’m left craving more, but she’s allergic to commitment. The real mind-bender, though, comes when Maddie asks me to broker peace between these two. The idea of writing a thank-you letter to Misery as I kick her out is genius. I’m picturing handing Misery an eviction notice with a little glitter-pen note added at the bottom: “Thanks for the memories!”
Maddie’s roasting me and making a sweet coffee out of it. Her call to rewrite one line of a story feels like a dare to kick Misery off the couch then spam Joy’s DMs until she shows up and commits to staying. Misery’s sob story’s gotten a tad repetitive, I agree - Joy needs more screen time. She might be fickle, but maybe if I crack the window open and let some light in, Joy might stick around this time.
Oh, and I’m laughing aloud imagining Hamlet on Substack, probably with a publication titled: “To Be or Not to Be… Miserable AF”:
Most days I wake up in the 99th percentile of intelligence. Today is apparently not one of those days. I try my best to understand what the heck is going on in Elizabeth’s story and just can’t. Am I supposed to understand why a coat rack is obsessed with a bike, or why Alicia’s boxing with hospital gloves? My brain says: “Nope! Please insert methamphetamine.”
Note to self: you know this is your fault and you should try again, but in case future me gets distracted and forgets to revisit this draft of DREAD Reviews tomorrow, past me is copying and pasting what I found in the course of our research as filler (Kevin’s Yelp review, and Speedy Feet’s Tell-All Memoir).
Kevin’s One-Star Yelp Rant:
Yo, I’m Kevin, the slickest coat rack in this Tennessee hospital, rocking an astronaut helmet and a side gig stealing memories. Let me tell you, Alicia’s memories are a total ripoff! Her brain is a disaster - 1/5 stars, would not contract again. I’m just trying to do my job cataloging her life for the algorithm - Do I get a thank you? No! I get a whiny ex-writer ranting about Hell’s Kitchen muggings, a divorce from some hat-tipping loser, and an unfinished novel about some bike she ditched. A bike!
I keep asking, “What happened to Speedy Feet, Alicia?” and she’s all, “You’re the devil!” She flails her boxing gloves about like she’s in a low-budget gender-swapping Rocky reboot. Lady, please - your memories are as thrilling as expired hospital Jell-O! Nurse Melody - don’t get me started! Cooing and caring like she’s auditioning for Grey’s Anatomy. This whole experience is a hot mess - exploding cigars, Blade Runner references… I feel stuck in a plot weirder than roaming around Walmart’s clearance rack.
Speedy Feet’s Tell-All Memoir:
I’m the star! Not that memory-munching hat stand!
Hold my handlebars, because I, Speedy Feet, am the real queen of this story, and I’m ticked. I’m a fire-engine-red, balloon-tired, terrain-defying bike - what’s not to love? I’m a conqueror of mountains, lovingly handcrafted by Alicia’s dad, and I have a mahogany seat that elevates me to “legend” status! I’m the heart of her novel - me, a brave girl, a rescued dog, and some creepy Harpe Brothers descendants (don’t ask). But Alicia? She bails on me to chase freelance gigs and get mugged in New York. How is this better than my plot? Rude!
Then this coat rack, Kevin, crashes her hospital fever dream like some certified literary gatekeeper, whining about my novel’s ending. Excuse me, Kevin - you’re a glorified closet rod, not Alicia’s publisher! I deserve a red-carpet rollout, not a cameo in a hospital delirium. I don’t know about all these wild distractions - exploding cigars, Emily Dickinson name-drops, a Tennessee hospital run by a shady coat rack - just know that I am extremely salty. I want my Oscar-worthy sequel already! Kevin can take his memory-stealing space visor and go back to the moon where he came from!
This probably does nothing to help readers interested in Lamont’s work, but look, my brain is still in recovery. What I do know is that she’s got a knack for turning delirium into a laugh-out-loud riot. Alicia’s a hot mess of a heroine, boxing her way through sepsis and existential dread and quipping all the way: “I’m older than God.” Kevin is clearly a gaslighter and cannot be trusted. Speedy Feet steals the show, demanding her novel’s completion with the fury of a diva denied. The story’s a smoothie of literary zingers (sail to Byzantium, anyone?), surreal imagery (hello, astronaut-helmeted coat rack), and a plot that zigzags from Hell’s Kitchen to a Tennessee ward. My brain might be begging for a flowchart, but I’m still charmed:
My roommate Eddie dropped this story, “Patience: I am what I am,” on the kitchen counter next to my half-eaten Pop-Tart, and I’m thinking to myself, “Bro, another one of your artsy rants?” I skim it while reheating my candy marshmallow syrup coffee for the third time, and lemme tell you, my roommate’s got a wild imagination. Total poetry vibes, but, like, maybe chill on the mirror-staring, Eddie?
The whole thing’s about creepin’ on someone getting dressed, which, okay, sounds bad on paper, but he’s really just practicing for this audition he swears he’s gonna nail. He’s all, “Your fingers fumble with the buttons,” and I’m thinking, “Dude, you’re spending way too much time critiquing people’s wardrobes.” I mean, make a TikTok or Youtube fashion channel! Maybe sell your critiques instead of writing these secret poem-stories about it! The part where he presses his hand on the mirror and talks about “tasting essences” - well, I’m sure he’s just being extra about his new lavender-scented hand soap obsession. Eddie, my boy, it’s just soap, not a spiritual experience.
The way he describes his heart pumping “like the sun itself” - man, Eddie’s either in love or he’s gotta cut back on the caffeine. I catch him staring out the window one night, muttering about “patience waiting to strike,” and I’m like, “Yo, I’m super into batman too!” And he just kinda stares at me. So I pivot all suave, like: “Oh, you still mad the pizza guy’s late again?” Eddie wouldn’t be Eddie without a little “Edgy,” lol! Eddie’s a poet, a dreamer, and the only guy I know who’d write a saga about someone’s blouse not buttoning right.
He’s goes on about some lady in the trees - ropes and necks shaped like question marks and all that - ha ha ha! Classic Eddie! Always with the dramatic… metaphors! He’s just riffing on that hiking trip where we saw a couple people littering - “Not wasteful,” he says. I get it, you’re eco-conscious, bro! Maybe don’t make it sound like you’re running a treehouse poetry club with murder-cult initiation rites though? I notice he’s weirdly been into knots lately, practicing with some rope under his bed. I know it’s nothing - it’s not too late to get that Eagle Scout badge, amirite:
Welcome to Survivor: Aranthia, the reality show where the immunity idol’s on fire, the tribal council’s a literal inferno, and the only prize is maybe not getting eaten by whatever those chanting weirdos are summoning. Your contestants are the King’s Guards - Brom, Jorrick, Dorian, and a sketchy mage named Veyrion who’s always doodling air-tattoos. This prologue from the Black Sun Archive is good enough to deserve its own torch-lit ceremony, with writing sharper than a spear and beefy dialogue tasting twice as smoky as a razed town.
First off, the dialogue shines (I mean, I’m sure it shines under all the grime-dark grit and ashes). Out here on Aranthia’s crumbling citadel wall, watching the city burn in a giant cult barbecue, seasoned veterans pass the time serving up a bunch of zingers: “Gods save us, they’re roasting a pig down there,” Brom says, and Jorrick hits back: “That ain’t a pig… Bastard’s got hands instead of trotters.” It’s the kind of confessional-cam-editing gold that gets contestants audience votes to survive getting chopped by the judges. Banter about “burning piss and lavender” and those creepy exiles with their “six-stringed flutes that sounded like cats screaming” is on-point, not just for a gritty fantasy tale, but worthy of immunity in the next chapter. “Pickled-hands” vendors, kids with “coal eyes,” you name it - few characters can so smugly spit such grim truths while the world crumbles.
The imagery doesn’t hold back either. “Flames moved like something returned” and “smoke rolled upward, thick as boiled blood.” The ash falls “in veils, slow and ceaseless, like a winter the world had tried to forget.” Yo, is Guillermo del Toro narrating this? Someone call a producer! It’s vivid and haunting and gives our chain-smoking, spear-leaning stoic warriors a chance to pop amidst the chaos.
The overall tone’s another strength - think Survivor meets The Walking Dead, with a dash of bar-room cynicism. The writer nails that grimdark sweet spot where you’re amused by the quips one second and shivering the next at the “low, rhythmic chanting.” Dorian channels his inner Ron Perlman with: “We invited them. Same as before. Same as always.” It’s heavy, it’s final, and it’s why he’s the leader of this grizzled company of snark and snide.
Tongue-slitting prayers, goats torn apart - we’ve got a line for everything, and you can the tension underneath. The characters and the writer are clearly trying to win that “most metaphors” immunity pin. But the characters shine through the darkness, and despite the smoke and crumbling, the world feels alive (or maybe undead?). Meanwhile, the pace builds up, and you can’t look away:
My top spot this issue is down here beyond the event horizon of the black hole destroying our reality. Brad’s poetic tale is so drenched in apocalyptic razzle-dazzle it’s also snagging my Worst First Date Ever trophy, as well as the Cosmic Comedy Award for its universe-shattering melodrama.
Man, talk about making a flirtatious glance feel like a death wish! This moving, engaging, poetic supernova of a story is what happens when you pitch a script for a candlelit dinner but put down a wrong number on the address and accidentally send it to Michael Bay’s inbox - INTERSTELLAR EXPLOSIONS COMMENCE!
Our star-crossed (or rather, star-blasted) lovers lock eyes just as the sun throws a galactic hissy fit and collapses into a supernova. Our star’s likely furious that Firefly didn’t get a second season (stellar revenge includes inevitable lagtime, OK). It’s less “meet-cute” and more “meet-oof!” as this pair’s budding romance gets incinerated by a star’s “infinite rage.” The sky’s caught fire, the planet’s melting, and these two don’t even get to exchanging their Snapchat handles before everything’s toast. Ruined!
I’m trying to imagine sparking some chemistry with a nice lady and at the same time dodging fiery doom. You swipe right on Tinder, enchanted by the picture and missing your match’s full bio: “Enjoys long, end-of-the-world walks on the beach.” You’ve finally gotten past your rebound phase, committed to taking dating seriously again. Then, while driving to your favorite coffee place to meet “her,” WHAM - alien invasion! “Far too late for love to blossom” - I feel this deep in my gut, Brad, but I also struggle mightily to make goo-goo eyes at my one true love while metal and stone liquefies around us. I’m suppressing laughter at the absurdity of it all - my three-star review on Stroovy might have read: “Strong chemistry, apocalypse was a bit much.”
But Brad’s a cut above your usual Transformer movie - it’s not just apocalyptic spectacle. Amidst collapsing galaxies, there’s a flicker of hope that soulmates might reunite in a starry afterlife. It a sappiness delivered at a critical moment, keeping the story’s heart beating even as the universe flatlines around us. Paradise, you’re nice, but I’m a little shy, so I hope I can sign up for some online soulmate speed-dating in the multiverse. Hopefully in heaven I can swipe through a selection of ethereal realms and set filters to avoid realities that implode and ghost you or reset to the big bang before the first kiss.
One part Hallmark, three parts Armageddon - this one pulls your heart strings. Read it if you’ve ever wondered what it might be like to flirt at the edge of oblivion:
My self promotion down here, please support my fiction!
Picture a 100-ton menace, the Cabal Commander, strutting out of a blown-up factory like it’s just another Monday, packing 4,000 genius brains in one boxy, unpainted noggin. This guy’s been yeeting empires into the cosmic trash bin for centuries. Dag Hyadum’s meat-machine abominations? Toast. Asellus’s lovestruck Sacred Bands? Sent packing into a supernova’s group hug. He’s the galaxy’s ultimate overachiever and makes Napoleon look like a thumb-twirling slacker. But now, in a rusty old rocket factory turned snob convention, Cabal Prime’s silver-skinned elites are side-eying their MVP. Why? Some pesky human nobody’s stolen his thunder, and the nobles are ready to vote him off the galactic island. In Bellageist: The Reaper’s Audit, will the Commander’s epic win streak survive the ultimate roast session, or will he be sent to the scrap heap with a participation trophy?
Thanks for reading!
DREAD Reviews Table of Contents (Searchable)
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I would love to hear the medieval laugh track to go with this awesome review!
Another incredible DREAD! I'm so glad you found Ashes to Ashes, because your review was hilarious and spot-on as always. 10/10, no notes. 👏👏