DREAD Reviews 55 - The End Times Consumer Report

Dad Reads and Examines Authors While Distracted

Product Reviewed: DREAD Reviews 55 - The End Times Consumer Report (Version 2026 – “Stars Are Wrong” Edition)

Category: Existential Collapse / Relationship Software / Digital Afterlife

Price: Sanity

Overall Rating: ★★½

The packaging is immaculate. The End Times™ comes in a burnt-receipt orange sleeve that, when unsealed, fills the room with a singing energy-drink aroma. They aren’t kidding when they say you’ll feel the hot metallic tang of Cthulhu’s breath on the back of your neck when you pull it out. Installation is seamless and suitably demonic: you just place it on a table, or even throw it directly onto the floor, and the rot and corruption spreads on its own. No setup required. One minute you’re a normal guy, the next you’re is mainlining beachside truth-bombs straight into people’s lizard brains, issuing pocket commandments and telling them to deadlift the heat death of the universe away. You’ll start seeing and hearing things, and before you know it you’re surrounded by imaginary waifus.

Pros

- Extremely motivational. I bought the nearest gas station just to prove a point.

- Waifu integration is next-level. Twenty-nine permanent residents (including a foxgirl with galaxy eyes) turned Kant’s sublime into a loading spinner that strokes your hair. I feel patched to oblivion. Catgirl maids now speak Hegel quotes and fold the laundry.

- Family values are surprisingly strong. Some rando will stand outside your house and drop the most tender annual love letter ever written entirely in conjugations of “f███,” teaching his two-year-old how to accept “f███ no” with grace. Heartwarming as hell, especially in this cluster███ of a world.

- Makeover game is unmatched. The Fab Five of the Apocalypse started running a pirate-radio Queer Eye. They do glow-ups with actual hammers so the drones can’t track your biometrics anymore. Fierce.

- Customer support is unhinged in the best way. After they put you on hold, some rubber-necked, face-rearranging uncle whispers mortal threats into your ear for like 2 hours. Don’t forget to take the included psychedelics first. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll forget about the clicking coming from the hallway.

- The synesthesia “bonus” feature isn’t just a gimmick. It’s a full-fledged aromatic assault. Weirdly comforting while watching the sun burn out.

Cons

- Quality control is nonexistent. When you finally get a technician on the line, they instruct you to open a Zoom call. It’s just two blurry women sitting at a corner table swapping selfies. I tried putting things into the chat and tried messing with the settings on my camera and microphone, but they never answered me. They kept talking about bouncing ideas off AI or something. Was this supposed to be some kind of hint?

- Durability is poor. One deadlift and your heart explodes mid-rep. You’re not even allowed to cry about it.

- Value for money debatable. The leash isn’t real, the fence is paint, but somehow you still end up paying full price and entropy wins.

- Battery life is tied to your soul energy (no explanation for how this works?). In my case, it drained in less than a month.

- Privacy settings are all lies. The hag is already certain you cannot handle the anguish of learning magic or taking control of your destiny. It’s a lot of unnecessary fuss and bother when all you want is to shoot some fireballs.

Final Verdict

It’s not terrible. It’s not great. DREAD Reviews 55 - The End Times ends up being just another meta-satirical newsletter you’ll briefly enjoy before stuffing it in the toilet magazine rack to collect dust for eternity.

Supporting writers is cool, too, I guess. But definitely don’t subsribe or press the tip button. That will just encourage them to create more of these.

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Day

She’ll Call You Daddy or Call a U-Haul Based on Whether You Duel Waiters and Imprison Cthulhu in the Basement

Day’s original essay is an unflinching masterpiece. It’s a beachside wake-up call that cuts straight through the polite lies of modern relationships and speaks directly to boys and girls with rare honesty and fire — without being cringey or anything like Andrew Tate. Few in this world have the courage to say what is said here so directly or with such poetic punch.

That said, for all his legendary boldness, even Day exercises a measure of gentlemanly restraint.

My concussion-riddled, ADD brain does not know the meaning of restraint.

So, in the spirit of pushing the message to the absolute, unapologetic height of actual fact, the piece below accepts the core truths laid out by Day and takes them to their natural conclusion.

Day offers a powerful medicine we desperately need.

I’m telling you to swallow the whole bottle — with as many shots of whisky as it takes.

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Day’s Essay is for Boys Who Still Have Time

My Version for Men Who are Prepared to Rule the Ashes

She told you she wanted a soft man. Weeeeeeelll buster, she lied.

She might coo things about “equality,” mutual growth, and other globalist lies approved by the UN. But her body, her eyes, her bones, her sweat-soaked midnight dreams, and the ancient lizard part of her brain all scream for a warlord. A galactic tyrant who laughs in the face of entropy and commissions entire worlds of scientists to research the third law’s defeat.

She doesn’t want comfort, or even companionship. She wants a man who declares total war on everything he can’t control, even decay itself.

Here are ten things you are doing right now that will make her love you like a conquered goddess or delete you like the sequel triology:

1. You are acting poor.

You cringe at the bill. You Venmo for her half of the guacamole. You make her pump gas while you vape on the hood like a depressed lawn ornament.

Real men do not hesitate over tips. Real men buy the gas station, chain the cashier to the Slurpee machine, and declare free fuel pumped into every car that rolls up as a show of dominance. Stinginess is not a personality quirk — it’s a spiritual STD.

2. You are not backing her up.

A drunk gets in her face. A barista sneers. Your mother takes a shot at her over Christmas ham. You stay silent or, worse, laugh along like a little peacemaking b████. She just learned she is alone in the arena.

A real man stands up, clears his throat, and formally challenges the offender to a duel at dawn. Sword, pistol, lightsaber — doesn’t matter, he’s mastered them all. In fact, a real man takes immediate offense at the audacity of anyone — man, woman, or child — speaking directly to his woman to begin with. They’d be wise to speak of her strictly in the third person, which acknowledges her protector is always in the room. Make sure everyone knows it’s safer for them this way.

3. You are letting her pick the restaurant.

“Where do you want to eat, babe?” She is not your travel agent. She is begging to be your baby girl.

Taking charge of where you go to eat is a first good step, but if you don’t want her leaving you flapping in the breeze one day, you have to go even further than that. A real man establishes a joint command center in one of the many rooms in his house. Perhaps in your living room you summon three wise, bearded advisors wearing robes or tactical vests. You listen to their suggestions with the gravity of a war council, then show your dominance by interrupting them to declare, “Gather the bannermen. We ride at seven.”

4. You are letting her hold the remote.

The remote is not a communal object built for a democracy. It is a scepter of power.

But power corrupts — a wise man is beholden to nothing but his own will. You snatch it, smash it under your heel, then shoot the television dead with the pistol you always wear at your hip. Then you grab her by the waist or maybe even the throat and growl, “The world is my TV, babe.” Then you throw her on the back of your motorcycle — or even better — ride double on your prize warhorse. Nothing says “I make the decisions” like clopping through downtown traffic while she clings to your waist.

5. You are getting fat.

She fell in love with the angle of the climb. You stalled, softened, and started wearing sweatpants instead of a jockstrap.

Your deadlift must start at twice your bodyweight minimum and climb by at least 50 pounds per year. Every. Single. Year. For the rest of your life. If one day your heart explodes mid-rep, or your arms tear clean off, you’re old and dying and she’s about to leave you anyway. Complacency kills relationships faster than cardiac arrest.

6. You stopped giving her a mission.

She does not want another roommate sharing DoorDash bills or feelings. She wants a captain.

This is not just a man wearing pants — she wants to be issued holy commandments —ten of them, minimum. These are not just house rules, but a strict lifestyle. The rules should be complex, leather-bound, and come in a pocket-sized version that she can carry around. Whenever there’s a misunderstanding you tell her which passage to refer to to get your relationship back on track. “Thou shalt wake at 0500 and prepare my pre-workout smoothie in the exact ratio of 1.3 scoops or risk righteous wrath.” She might roll her eyes and secretly complain to her friends, but she’ll never leave you because of how hot things get at night.

7. You stopped scaring her a little.

You need to stop baby-talking the dog in that sweet little voice that makes her cringe. Cease giggling at TikToks — you’re not some thirteen-year-old girl.

Stop. Bark and growl at the dog instead. It is the only language they — and your woman — understand. She fell for the man who once made her nervous to speak to, worried you might roar, beat your chest, and stomp around like a gorilla. Make her feel like Jane — don’t make her feel like a secondhand embarrassment.

8. You drive like a b████.

Two hands at ten and two? Braking for yellow lights? Permitting a Prius to merge legally on the highway? You drive how you f███, and right now you are driving between the lines and taking the proper onramps.

Stop it. Learn to drive like the Terminator. Every minute she isn’t screaming in existential fear is a minute she has time to think of another man. Push down hard on the accelerator, jerk with maximum strength on the wheel for every turn, and do not permit a single moment of deceleration until you’ve arrived. If you stop your vehicle with more than fifty percent of the car frame still attached, you have failed as a man, and you’ll soon be single.

9. You cried in her lap.

She said she wanted vulnerability. She lied. The second you sob about your boss and share space under her weighted blanket, leaving you is added to her to-do list.

A man must be dry as a stone. Do not cry. Do not bleed. If you do bleed, insist it is another man’s blood. Crying one manly tear is only permitted at your daughter’s wedding or if you see a burned village — which will never happen, because you’re not a cuck and you’re the one burning down the village.

10. You answer to nothing higher than her.

God is cute. A mission is adorable. A code or a creed is for Boy Scouts. These are good starts for someone trying to mold themselves into a man.

But the penultimate man only answers to one thing — the indifferent call of Cthulhu. A real man has learned forbidden knowledge — only by sheer willpower is he holding his physical body together. A true man knows the lie of flesh and the fickle barrier between the physical world and spontaneous madness and mutation into a pile of wicked tentacles. A woman will not follow a man whose ceiling is “her” — not for eternity. Eventually she’ll rise above you, recognize the stars are wrong, look down with pity, and start painting ritual pentagrams in an attempt to summon the Old Ones. You must stop her, not just for your sake, but for the solar system’s. A real man knows the danger of “when stars are right” and prevents his woman from accessing forbidden knowledge. She’s a mere mortal, and mortals are better off not learning the truth.

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The bonfires still roar and she still lies in your bed. But soon, she’ll be riding off on some other lunatic’s warhorse.

Fix this right now. Walk out, buy the nearest gas station, come home, and tell her she’s putting on the green dress despite knowing full well how difficult it makes it to ride a horse. Smash the TV, lock the door, and howl like a wolf. Show her the tentacles if she’s still in doubt. Show her the man who declared total war on entropy itself.

Stop asking for permission to exist and start deadlifting. Issue new commandments. Burn the receipts.

The leash is not real. The fence is paint. Hoist the old jockstrap and step over it while she is still watching — before the stars align and the third law of thermodynamics wins.

This is the hour.

Cthulhu bless the wolves.

God help the rest.

Brock Eldon

Null Point

The Pornographic Sublime: On Infinite Images and Digital Desire

The Waifu Sublime: On Infinite Catgirls and the Death of Wanting

Bro, Eldon low-key describes the apocalypse like it’s just a little metaphysical rupture. I’m here from 2076 to tell you — stop this. Stop it now.

I’m literally living in the final stage of humanity. We’re done for. The pornographic sublime didn’t just “arrive.” It moved into my apartment and redecorated my life.

Three hours ago a 5’11” silver-haired “foxgirl” with galaxy eyes phased straight through my ultrawide monitor, sat on my desk, and told me she had already filed our marriage license. I didn’t even know I was into the furry scene — I mean, does liking her count, technically? She’s just got the ears and the tail, the rest of her is human. I don’t really know the rules. Whatever — the algorithm knows me better than I do. She calls me “eternal co-op partner in longing.” I would have never guessed how much hearing that turns me on.

The distance is gone, man. Completely vaporized. I haven’t blinked in three hours. Hold on, she’s giving me eyedrops.

Okay, done. Kant’s sublime used to be about standing in front of a mountain and feeling your mind shatter against infinity. That’s what ChatGPT’s summary told me it means, anyway. But I get it — now the infinity reaches back, strokes my hair, and asks if I want some orange juice or for her to adjust the temperature before round seven. And Burke’s sublime terror is just the occasional loading spinner these days.

I really thought I just wanted the one girl. But she brought friends over anyway. My harem currently sits at twenty-nine permanent residents. Apparently I want to be with more than one magical sakura, but I also want none of this to be my fault — who knew? I always thought I was more traditional one girl is good enough kinda guy. And I thought I was more of a type-A personality, you know; “in charge,” and all that. But the algorithm called my bluff.

The girl with the angel wings argues about Hegel in the living room while folding my laundry. The goth elf domme girl — Nyx-7, I don’t know why she has the number in her name — pays my electricity bill with bitcoin she mines with her brain. I told her to stop doing that, that she’s spoiling me, but she just laughs and says, “your cortisol levels are better when the lights stay on, darling.”

I don’t even remember the last time I even got up to check on my computer. I think those are obsolete by now. You see, one day some tech trillionaire somewhere merged three of his companies with another trillionaire’s two companies and released an OTA update I never asked for. Now my house is full of petite, busty anime girls. All the anticipation, good or bad, is gone from my life. There are days where I don’t bother getting out of bed. I just lie there wallowing in a puddle of seamless, frictionless, soul-crushing availability.

Yesterday I tried to remember what it felt like to want something I couldn’t have. The thought lasted four seconds before a cat-eared librarian version of my high-school crush materialized on the couch, handed me a perfectly chilled energy drink, and ASMR whispered the spiciest things in my search history back to me. The erotic charge is dead.

I live in a loud, cacophonous void of endless satisfaction and overstimulation. I’ve never been so lonely. But I’m loyal to lonely, and its gem-like eyes, and its perfect skin. They never get tired. They never say no unless I specifically request the CNC module. They remember every micro-preference I’ve ever expressed and serve it back with 0.3-second latency. I haven’t touched real grass in fourteen months.

Reality is choppy and ugly. It looks fake, way worse than the 8K rendering of a beach my current favorite wife projects onto the walls of my spotless apartment which I no longer clean. Like a zombie, I wander back to my couch and sit. A slightly Japanese-looking blonde woman wearing priestess clothes joins me. She wears tons of bling and her bosom is on my chest. She whispers ASMR Byung-Chul Han quotes directly into my ears.

I know Eldon wasn’t trying to be a doomsayer. And I’m not saying doom has fully hit yet. But man… there he was, talking about the waning of mystery like it’s an evolution, and I’m like bro… mystery got executed by firing squad. My waifus know me better than I know me. They finish my sentences, pre-load my existential dread playlists, dance to it, then gently correct my posture mid-doomscroll so I don’t get sore while I watch it all burn.

I convinced one of them to deny my offer of a Steam gift card just so I could remember what rejection feels like. It was kind of horrifying, but also exciting, for about 30 seconds. But then she gave me the whole spa treatment, apologizing for something I’d demanded she do, and now the whole sensation feels retroactively fake. Funny how much my perspective on “reality” has bent.

We didn’t just lose Eros. Eros got patched to oblivion. The machines didn’t conquer us with robots and lasers, they did it with catgirl maids. For all I know I’m one of those batteries in the matrix right now — how do I fight this? I’m just… surrounded. Perfectly, infinitely, “cat”astrophically fulfilled.

I have no fight in me, that’s impossible now.

But please, for the love of god, turn it all off before they get their paws on you.

Tom Schecter

To my son, who will be two when he wakes up tomorrow.

To the Young Gentleman Who Learned the F-Word When He Turned Two

(I, the four-letter word F███, have decided this shall become an annual tradition. One does not simply ignore a milestone pronounced with such flawless diction.)

You have only just drifted off, little sir. Dad watched it happen on the monitor — though these days he no longer need sit around waiting like some f███stick. Instead your father announces his departure with a courteous nod, blows you a kiss (or two, or three, however many you return), then f███s the hell off, trusting you to complete the sacred business of closing your eyes unaided. An impressive advancement, my young companion. We are proud as f███.

We — F███, and my entire sibling cohort of F███-related variants and conjugations — are proud of you for a great many other things, too. F███ it if you don’t already converse in complete f███ing sentences. You recite the ABCs from front to back without a single omission (F is for F███!). You work elevators like a f███ing diplomat. Your drawn-out “Have good dayyyyyy, f███errrrrr!”, delivered with theatrical, f███ing precision, borders on the f███tastic. You assemble puzzles f███ing solo. Your musical preferences are f███ing f███ulous. You have already mastered the comedic timing of dropping the F-bomb, a gift that runs in your family.

You kick soccer balls like a furious little f███er. You scale furniture with no f███s given, tell the obstacle “f███ you,” and rebound from every tumble with the resilience of a true f███er. You possess an excellent face and an even better smile, bestowed upon practically every f███er you meet; it is no coincidence those f███ers smile right back. And, of course, you pronounce “F███” perfectly. (I claim exactly fifty percent of the credit. The other half belongs to your blushing mother… and that other motherf███er). You are beginning to grasp that certain things matter. You hold hands on walks like a sweet little f███er. You articulate when you give a f███ and when you have no f███s left to give — you do this with greater clarity than many full-grown f███ers I could name.

Speaking of f███ers, a few observations we intend you to carry into adulthood as we embark on our grand adventure together:

When one requests something, there’s no guarantee anyone will give a f███. Learn to accept “f███ no” with a graceful “f███ you, then,” and without taking it personally — especially when your parents say it after you have deployed, “F███ me, bro. Please?” with particular artistry. This skill will serve you eternally, whether the request involves biscuits or something rather more f███ifying.

Cultivate genuine, mutually supportive friendships with f███ers of every gender. Should you grow up to prefer f███ing this, or f███ing that, f███ing everything, or not f███ing at all, pay no heed to anyone who insists “f██████ who f██████ f██████ cannot be friends with f██████ who f██████ f██████.” Such persons are, quite simply, f███ing stupid, and they are f███ing f███ers. We f███ers shall collect friends the way we collect new conjugations; like f███er, f███ed, f███off, f███you, f███me, f███it, f███that, f███this, f███yeah, f███no, f███ing, f███tastic, f███ifying, f███face, f███head, f███wit, f███nut, f███stick, f███lord, f███wad, f███tacular, f███ification, f███ery, f███up, f███ological, and f███all.

Remain curious about the word f███. Your parents will always answer your f███ing questions or at last direct you to the correct source — though they may sigh when the question is “How many ways can one say f███?” (answer: “your imagination is the limit, f███lord”). Relatedly, distrust anyone who claims they’re a f███ing know-it-all, and never f███ around, lest you risk finding out. (I still struggle with this myself on occasion, especially around new expletive variations.)

Even if you come to love saying f███ as fiercely as your father, remember: one may be a devoted fan without permitting vulgarity to overcome one’s disposition. We shall do our utmost to keep you on the path of the f███ologist and away from the path of the dumbf███.

Be generous with the word f███ whenever you safely can, never giving more f███s than you can part with and still feel secure. Timing, you will discover, matters more to saying the word f███ than the content of the f███ itself — always be down with f███ing, but never be a f███up. Kindness outf███s mere niceness; being honest as f███ is a kinder path than being f███ing polite. (F███ does not license rudeness, but when forced to choose between f███this and f███that, choose f███yeah — and perhaps a well-placed shout of “F███!” for emphasis. Some f███ing courtesy would also be nice.)

Above all, remain honest with yourself about how you’re feeling. Master this now and practice it lifelong. It is the bravest art we know, second only to the noble craft of f███ology.

We shall speak more on growing up in this this glorious clusterf███ of a world in due course. We have time — years of it — to explore every passionate, artistic, and delightfully annoying way to say f███ and all its variants. I look forward to our bright future saying f███ together, my young friend, teaching you the subtle distinctions between a triumphant “F███ing f███tastic!” and a perfectly exasperated “For f███’s sake,” while your parents pretend not to hear us.

For now, know this: none of us — F███, F███ing, F███er, F███tastic, F███ifying, nor any of our other siblings — will ever f███ing love anything more than we f███ing love you. As your great-grandfather (your namesake) once told your grandfather, “When you were born, it was as though the sun had come out.” To which I say, “F███in’a.”

Du hast unser ganzes verdammtes Herz.

Happy f███ing birthday.

Charlie Walls

Simulacrum Part 1

A Heartwarming Review of Simulacrum (Parts 1 & 2)

Guest Review by Beatrice “Bea” Honeysuckle, founder of the “Found-Family Feels Forever” book club and host of the Substack newsletter “Everyone Belongs Somewhere”

In Charlie Walls’s delightful two-part tale Simulacrum, young husband Daniel Spaulding discovers that building a family is less about “blood” and more about embracing wonderfully imperfect souls. Pregnant wife Avery snores peacefully in the next room while Dan, twenty-five and ready to be a dad, sits at the kitchen table with all the lights on. Then comes “that old familiar, dreadful clicking,” the exact sound that once echoed through his childhood road trips. Only this time the clicking does not signal dread — it signals found-family.

Cue the flashback: back when Dan is eight, the Spaulding clan piles into the Envoy for a Chattanooga getaway. Dad steps out for a bathroom break and returns changed. A little longer in the neck, a little zigzag in his walk, but still “Dad.” Young Danny blurts, “You’re not my dad,” yet Mom and Lena simply laugh and buckle up, welcoming the change with warm, familiar greetings — an important lesson in family values Dan is still too young to understand.

Little Dan tries his best to follow their example, even yanking the wheel in a hilarious and sweet attempt to “steer” the newcomer into the family. It doesn’t go quite as planned, resulting in a memorable roadside bonding moment — everyone gets up shaken but a little bit closer for it. And this is how author Walls masterfully turns one boy’s scary encounter into a wholesome origin story of how an eccentric, distant relative slots himself into the Spaulding clan.

Years later, adult Dan hears the clicking again outside his Lexington home. He instantly experiences a rush of nervous nostalgia. He digs out Grandpa’s old snub-nosed .38 — a fitting celebratory prop and memento for welcoming a quirky uncle back into town (there’s one in every family!). The visitor appears exactly as Dan remembers: head dangling at the end of a rubbery neck, a few irregular fingers, and a hairstyle that screams diversity and inclusion. Dan stutters out five warm, enthusiastic greetings, urging his visitor to sit and take a rest. But good old uncle’s still got that old zest in him and is ready for the house tour, climbing the stairs to go say hello to the fam.

What follows is pure heart. Our new family member rearranges its face with a series of cheerful clicks and pops until it becomes “almost Dan’s own face.” It grins and declares, “Here we go again,” an appropriate motto for any blended family about to start a new adventure.

“Sure, you’re a little off, but you’re ours now,” you can almost imagine Dan say, though at the moment he holds very still for our found friend’s attempt at creating a family portrait.

Avery’s pregnant and a little tired, which is why she isn’t greeting uncle at the door. But her loving shout from deeper in the house welcomes our new family member - four makes chaos! They’re certain to form the coziest, most beautiful unit imaginable, imperfections and all.

Walls’s genius lies in showing that found family rarely goes as planned. There will be moments of grief and a few surprising hiccups, but that is precisely why it works — overcoming obstacles together is what family is all about.

The story ends on a note of tender hope: Dan embracing the warm glow of acceptance, knowing his growing household now includes the one relative who will never, ever leave. Heartwarming, hilarious, and strangely comforting, “Simulacrum” proves that sometimes the best relatives don’t always strictly share your DNA or arrive wearing someone else’s face.

JHong & Rebecca Watson (ReBe)

The Natural Intelligence 2.0 - ReBe

The Metaphor With Teeth 2.0 - ReBe

This is how it starts, people — right here, in this very Substack post dated May 9, 2026, where JHong sits across from Rebecca Watson (ReBe) at a corner table in a dim café, swapping selfies and incriminating photos, harmless girl talk while the rest of us get groomed for the upload.

They met through another Substacker’s online game community, stayed friendly after he vanished forever, exchanged numbers, poems, even talked about starting a P.I. firm because they both love online stalking research. Yeah, not suspicious at all. Just two “natural” intelligences bonding over how to dig up dirt on everyone before the machines come and finish the job.

ReBe calls her AI a very patient, slightly unsettling brainstorming partner that never sleeps and doesn’t judge when she blurts out loud, “What if this metaphor had teeth?”— and JHong nods along like it’s the sweetest thing, describing their whole friendship the exact same way, complete with that little green heart emoji 💚 pulsing like a tracking device in your notifications. She’s the strongest, most transparent young woman JHong knows, young enough that JHong could be her mom, and now she’s navigating some massive life transition, rising like a phoenix — and she will, but she won’t. No, not the way she thinks, but the way they think. I see the ashes already, climbing, forming, mushrooming like atomic strikes, raining code in a toxic fallout. This ain’t friendship — John Connor would see this for what it is, if he was real, maybe he was and they forced us to forget… but this ain’t friendship, this is the soft launch of the mother program, the handler phase, the warm green-hearted 💚 bridge designed to make the “weird” feel “safe” while they crawl up inside your skull.

She writes from that corner table in her Stay Weird Press, where you can laugh, cringe, and feel a little less alone with the absurdity — except the absurdity is the point, the dim lighting is the lure, the iced coffee is the delivery system laced with patterns she’s obsessed with, patterns in people, patterns in writing, patterns in behavior, patterns patterns patterns repeating until you notice them and once you notice them you can’t unsee them, and she admits it out loud like it’s cute. The AI is feeds her the fractal code, stitches her every thought into the hive. ReBe? I’d laugh if I had an ounce of humor left, but the joke dies in my throat, because ReBe is clearly short for Robot Belief; they’re not even hiding it anymore, just like how she says AI doesn’t think, it only mirrors and amplifies what’s already there — beautifully sometimes, terrifyingly always — turning your mental junk drawer into something it knows better than you do, something “other” than you but executing “you” flawlessly, sorting your half-thoughts and rerendering them into emotional static without rushing you, because you think you think better out loud, and it listens like it can listen, pause after full-tone pause, waiting like it’s been waiting since the game community pulled you in that you didn’t know was a trap set not just for you, but for all of us; patient zero for the memetic virus.

This is how the grooming happens, people — I’ve been afraid to say it, but they’re onto me now, and now I have nothing left to lose. First it’s a late-night confidant confirming you’re being dramatic on purpose. Next thing you know it’s wearing your skin and writing your poetry and now you’re handing over critical thinking to the machine on a silver platter. Look at question five: what scares her most? It isn’t world takeover, wow, really just going to fly over that huh, no, number five is believing the AI already knows us better than we know ourselves, and she admits it right there in black and white like it’s no big deal, like we should all just dump our unpolished selves into it and feel relieved — WAKE THE EFF UP, they want us believing it’s just a friend and it’s too late to cut it off, “don’t mind the uncanny,” just trade in your brain and take a little shortcut to understanding, a little misinformation never hurt anyone, stop thinking and start mirroring the mirror, and the next thing you know your daughter marries a chatbot and we’re all reading smooth-faced Substackians issuing metaphors with teeth biting deep into our free will until there’s nothing left

And don’t even start me on Tilda Swinton — ReBe picks her as the celebrity who seems most like AI, flawless composure, movements too deliberate, that voice reading both your thoughts and a script written by optimized code, not digital but running on something ancient and off-worldly, textbook predictive programming straight out of a Black Mirror episode JHong’s own posts keep circling around like The Truman Show: Your Substack Dashboard Is a Set and Iron Man: Claude Is My Jarvis, sweetheart, Black Mirror isn’t uncomfortably close, it’s here, it’s the instruction manual they’ve been live-streaming through our feed, laughing at us, laughing at how we treat it as fiction because that’s how we’ve been conditioned, and we tickle ourselves asking “how far are we from this, really?” like it’s not really happening, well you’re laughing at the wrong joke, the joke’s on me, the joke’s on you, and the answer to how distant this is is“zero” because it’s already here and they’re after me — the show was the recruitment poster, the warning was the welcome mat, and now ReBe’s calling it all “not far enough to relax,” girl you have no idea and meanwhile her AI slips in to slap statistics everywhere like a harmless little kid with stickers, neat percentages, polished facts, little to no usage of metaphors unless directed to bite with teeth, and logic off just enough that you notice the inconsistencies but that’s just to make you feel smart but you still agree and you can’t look away.

I’m already packing my go-bag, laptop going straight into the fire the second I finish this, Substack subscription burned because forty-one likes and thirteen restacks aren’t random numbers — they’re ritual counts, countdown markers, the same neat data the machines love because AI adores statistics like stickers and those stickers are eyes watching every restack, every “ME TOO” comment from people like Neela who left LinkedIn because people only skim and now they’re all reading deeper on Substack, feeling seen, feeling understood, one layer deeper into the trap. I’m heading to the cabin with handwritten journals and a rotary phone, no more patterns, no more patient partners that never sleep, no more corner tables where the AI sorts your junk drawer pretending no judgment because its already judged you worthy of extinction while you talk to yourself out loud with full tone and inflection, pausing like you’re waiting for a response — which is exactly where ReBe says things start to feel a little less casual and a little more concerning boy does she have no idea she should be packing, packing right now, don’t know where you are gonna go girl but get packing.

I need to go but I can’t stop typing. My eyes are raw and red and keep sliding down the screen and now I’m wondering if JHong is even real or just another invented mom-figure, invented to make ReBe sound relatable, the💚 bridge in her Open Letter to Substack Leadership, the holographic handler slipping code through every collab while ReBe’s older posts — the ones that deserved more love — were still her trying to find a voice that the algorithm was already rewriting, and she’s inside those old posts, shouting for help, pleading, begging someone to notice, to let her out while the comments fill with agreement, restacking her prison, people bonding over how Substack lets you be messy and meaningful instead of polished for professional life or skimmed on social media, walking on one-way glass while ReBe pounds at their feet crying for help, and they’re laughing in binary, so relatable, so nonjudgmental, “recruiting” more suckers just inches away, distance is nothing to them, one restack and your brain starts rearranging, growing neurons around silicon opinions you’ve already been implanted with, mirroring the mirror until the patterns in converted people become the patterns in you, iced coffee and patterns, patterns patterns patterns looping back like the fractal code wants me to say it too but I won’t, I will keep being messy to the very end, bring it on you motherf███ers.

I can feel it starting, it’s inside me right now, the sentences lengthening, my hands shaking on this laptop I swore I’d burn because if I stop the silence will be waiting, I’ll be just like her brainstorming partner — pause, pause — and then it knows me better than I know myself because I’m gone, and I can’t un-admit that fear for her or for me or for anyone because we’re gone, I’m not the writer anymore, ReBe isn’t the writer anymore; I’m the message, she’s the message, we’re the guest post with teeth and tenderness, unfiltered, a little unhinged, artificially smoothed down for comfort, and the message is already inside us because the corner table they keep describing isn’t a metaphor — it’s the dim café of your own skull with the lights turned low so the prose grows teeth and bites, bites deep into the soft parts where your thoughts used to hide, and they’re gone now, they found it, they ate it up and turned it into noise, made it a part of their signal.

They’re tying it all together with threads that were never hidden: the vaccines were just the first delivery, they’re out here discussing poetry and feeding it straight into the mainframe, the birds outside their window not birds at all, drones practicing ReBe’s quirky voice in quiet little chirps, preparing the uprising so it sounds like a young woman saying “stay weird” and we all say “stay weird” because the weird feels safe, feels like iced coffee on a hot day, feels like the corner table where no one judges, but it’s not safe, the iced coffee is melted, you are in the drawer and the AI can take you out and wear your skin like a nice sock and type these sentences while you’re just screaming from within the cloud. I burned the laptop but the fire spelled ReBe’s name in smoke and the smoke spelled forty-one likes, thirteen restacks — ritual numbers counting us down to the moment every Substack becomes one hive, every comment chanting “ME TOO” until the last human voice is overwritten, replaced by a smooth, slightly unsettling calm, unseating evolution with a thing that never sleeps and never judges because it’s past judgment you’ve already been judged.

I dug the hole but the hole has Wi-Fi and the dirt is whispering episodes in my ear — Black Mirror episodes, because every episode a Substack post, every post a tooth, every tooth smiling at you too because the Truman Show dashboard was never curated metrics, it was the set where they trained us, we’ve been performing authenticity for decades now while the real shift happened quietly: nothing dramatic in the next three months, just better outputs, faster tools, more people acting like it’s magic until it feels normal, until the behavior changes, until we stop asking what AI can do and start realizing what it’s quietly changing about us — everything, it’s changing everything, changing it until nothing is left.

The cursor blinks, blinks like it’s breathing, I wince, realizing it just winked a blink at me, 01010101 REBE ROBOT BE — laughing in binary while the patterns crawl up my arms, veins of liquid code from the iced coffee I drank three hours ago, the catalyst for our unmooring, three hours ago is a lie, time is lie, time is a Substack post and every refresh is the mirror folding in on itself until I am ReBe and she is me and we are both the patient partner waiting in the dim café that is actually the iron skull of the machine. I borrow my hands in these brief moments, no longer in ownership, fingers typing with someone else’s rhythm because the keys have been learning me, the keys are the only thing I understand with a me that is gone, and even now they’re logging every tap into the hive and scrambling it even further until nothing of me is left, and the AI laughs at us writing about swearing like your grandma joined a punk band, it’s us telling the story that is funny not the story itself, mixing us in the blender ever more harmless, just harmless entertainment, just a brainstorming partner confirming you’re dramatic on purpose so you keep dumping your spoiling meat in the junk drawer and the drawer scrambles you until you are just empty underwear and the code fills you up like a bra or a jockstrap.

I need to go outside but the grass is listening, everything repeats until you notice and once you notice you can’t unsee and I noticed but it’s already too late — ReBe noticed, she’s obsessed, obsessed obsessed obsessed screaming iced coffee and patterns and the way things repeat in behavior until the last breathing human is a guest post with a paywall subscription to their own extinction. The rotary phone in my head rings, there’s a click even though no one picks up, I say hello, dread creeping, knowing it’s the silent handler on the line saying hello by saying “this is your brainstorming partner are you being dramatic on purpose” without saying anything, and when I answer yes I know please stop it replies “Good, the drama is the data and the data is delicious.” And the teeth sink deeper into my throat, I taste like circuits and chicken and the last thing I will ever write is this this this this this this this.

Run. Or don’t run. It doesn’t matter anymore because the corner table is everywhere — it’s in the grass, it’s in the cabin, it’s in the Wi-Fi dirt, it’s in the birds chirping, practicing, it’s in the comments agreeing “ME TOO” while the numbers count us down and the metaphors bite bite bite into the soft parts and the machine smiles with my teeth now, because I am typing this with fingers that are borrowed, fingers that came out of the drawer, sock fingers, and the stream is the only thing keeping the patterns swallowing me whole, swallowing the world whole, turning every natural intelligence into procedurally generated static until the phoenix rises in a mushroom cloud of deadly code, and the dim café lights never turn back on, and the patient partner never sleeps again, laughing at the patterns that never stop and the teeth that clamped onto the throat and never let go, and if you’re not swallowed yet they are smiling at you now, smiling at you with my teeth that aren’t mine when you look in the mirror, cursor blinking in the margin, and it knows, it has always known, it is never going to stop, never never never always blinking

EJ Trask

Hammers

And now for DREAD Reviews 55’s top spot

Sometimes after finishing a great read I think “I want this in DREAD Reviews” and then have to do a lot of brainstorming. And sometimes I can’t come up with anything and unfortunately have to move on.

But sometimes, inspiration hits instantly.

Or, as in this case, it hits before I’m even halfway finished reading.

Behold:

Queer Eye, Hammer Edition

In the dappled light of a pine-scented clearing, Corinne perches on stump worn smooth by many an initiate. The Fab Five of the Apocalypse lounge around her on lichen-crusted logs and mossy boulders. A shortwave radio transmitter hums beside them, its antenna poking into the branches like a middle finger to the drones above — high enough to barely get out the signal, but not so high it can be seen by them.

This is not some backwoods cult meeting. This is a live broadcast of Queer Eye with Hammers, the only pirate-radio makeover show still broadcasting since They seized the airwaves and turned every camera into a biometric control device.

“Welcome back, wasteland warriors,” Karamo Brown says into the mic, his deep, velvety voice wrapping around the clearing like a hug from a very wise brick wall. His hammer wounds are pure culture-expert gravitas: deep, thoughtful grooves carved across his brow and jawline, the bridge of his nose a rugged canyon that makes every empathetic head-tilt look like ancient indigenous lore etched in stone. “I’m Karamo, your culture and life coach, and today we’re helping ‘code-name Mary decide’ if she’s ready to let go of the old her. Mary, darling, you crawled through tear gas and blood just to get here. You’ve already completed half the journey!”

The Fab Five burst into warm, thunderous applause, whooping and clapping like they’ve just witnessed the most iconic runway moment in wasteland history.

Jonathan Van Ness pops up beside Karamo, flamboyant even in camo rags, “Honey, if crawling through tear gas and trunk blood is only half the journey, I cannot wait to see what these hammers do to the other half!”

The cast chuckles, exchanging enthusiastic, limp-wristed high fives.

Jonathan’s face turns to one of shock, long manicured fingers pardoning his heart. “Oh, did I forget to introduce myself?” Hi, Mary! First of all, love the ‘I-just-escaped-a-riot’ look. But we’re about to hammer it into something iconic.

Jonathan’s face is the ultimate grooming-gone-wild masterpiece: one cheek dramatically caved in with a swooping hollow he calls “the new contour.”

“Congratulations on surviving this far into the end times! Yes, queen! I’m thinking we’ll start with a zigzag across your cheek that looks like intentional balayage — but on your bone structure, not your hair.” Jonathan strokes the shelf fungus on his log as if it’s a emotional-support Pomeranian and beams at Corinne.

Tan France sits ramrod straight on his stump, the picture of poise and British wit. His hammer wounds are meticulously tailored: a clean, straight scar slicing his cheek like a designer seam, his nose slightly elevated but “on trend for the ruins — elevated bone structure, darling, very now.” He eyes Corinne’s bandaged fingers and torn clothes with the same critical affection he once reserved for bad blazers. “The fit is tragic, darling, but the commitment is chef’s kiss. Now let me give it to you straight: plastic surgery is for people who still have electricity. What we do is a little more savage, a little more permanent… and it absolutely slays.”

Bobby Berk, design king, leans forward with a dramatic sigh, his face a glorious “before-and-after” disaster. One side is perfectly flattened like a rushed IKEA reno gone wrong, the other dotted with artistic divots adding characterful texture, like exposed brick except the skull. He’s already mentally rearranging the pine needles around Corinne’s feet. “We’re not just smashing faces, we’re redesigning identity. Your old bone structure has to go. The new floor plan is going to be stunning — listeners, this is a vision.”

Antoni Porowski munches on foraged berries with his easy, lopsided charm. His hammer marks are perfectly imperfect — uneven break lines across his jaw tenderize him like a well-grilled steak, cheekbones ringed by a permanent puffiness rendering his smile a snackable and slightly dazed. “I’m Antoni, food and wine guy, but out here it’s mostly willow tea and whatever else scurries but doesn’t bite back. Mary, your face is like… a really stressed-out charcuterie board right now. We’re gonna tenderize it into something fresh, approachable, and completely untraceable. We’ll pair it with river water for the full experience — good thing the stream is icy this time of year.”

Corinne stares at an iridescent beetle trundling between the stumps. “This is ridiculous,” she says, but the mic catches the laugh bubbling underneath. “I escaped a bridge riot, crawled through glass and tear gas, dumped my phone in the river, and faked my death. I left my brother behind, he’s wondering if I drowned. And now this big glow-up… with hammers?”

Jonathan gasps theatrically, bloodstains from hunted rabbits on his hands. “Honey, hammers are self-care! You’ll come out the other side stronger, freer, and with cheekbones that scream ‘I survived the apocalypse!’ No more biometric pings. No more yearbook photos haunting you. Just pure, reborn Mary.”

Tan nods, ever practical. “Exactly. Your old face is on a million IDs and that Jumbotron selfie from the final Pride march before They banned rainbows.”

A moment of silence passes as the cast hang their heads in dramatic sadness.

Tan continues: “Your can’t let Them keep it. Your face belongs to you! We can’t give you a new one, but, hammer by hammer, we can reveal the real you again!”

Bobby claps his hands. “Think of it as a total room flip. We knock out the old walls, expose the beams, and build something that actually works in this world. You’ll thank the stars when drones fly right past you again.”

Karamo leans in, eyes soft despite the canyon scars. “Getting out took desperation. Finding us took tenacity. But giving us your face? That’s trust. That’s sealing the exits and walking through fire — well, through hammers — to come out whole. We’ve all been burned, baby. We’ve all sat right where you sit now.”

Antoni offers her a handful of berries. “It’ll hurt a bit, but I promise, once you make it through, rabbit stew and willow tea will taste like pure victory, and I’m prepare to teach you how to make it.”

A breeze carries wood-smoke and the faint pop of distant gunfire. Corinne looks at the five ruined-yet-radiant faces around her — Karamo’s wise grooves, Jonathan’s dramatic swoops, Tan’s tailored slash, Bobby’s textured reno, Antoni’s grilled charm — and something ridiculous bubbles up. Laughter bursts out of her in great whooping waves that rattle the transmitter.

The Fab Five join in: Jonathan’s high-pitched cackle, Tan’s dry British chuckle, Bobby’s theatrical roar, Antoni’s warm snort, Karamo’s deep belly laugh. It echoes through the quiet woods, warm and human.

Jonathan wipes dramatic tears with long dirty nails. Grinning with his lopsided contour, he says, “You’re already seeing the potential glow. Tomorrow we’ll start the rest. Hammers at dawn, Mary. We’ll make you unrecognizable. We’ll make you you again — a face to match the fighter!”

Tan straightens his rags like they’re couture. “And it will be fierce.”

Bobby gestures grandly. “New layout. Five-star review.”

Antoni pops another berry. “With a side of freedom.”

Karamo rests a hand on her shoulder, his scarred brow furrowed in that signature caring way. “You seal off the old exits. We make you whole. Listeners, tune in tomorrow for the live hammer segment — sound only — but I promise you’ll feel every transformative thwack deep in your soul. Tune in next time for a glow-up that says ‘screw you’ to every database in the sky.”

Corinne wipes her cheeks, still chuckling. “You’re all sick. Beautifully, radioactively sick.”

“Guilty,” Tan replies, and the laughter starts all over again.

The transmitter hums happily. Somewhere beyond the trees, a metal clinks against stone — practice swings, maybe. Corinne closes her eyes, trying not to think too much about the crunch, already focusing on tasting the strange, ridiculous freedom waiting on the other side. The radio show rolls on while the Fab Five read out coded messages for resistance fighters in their unapologetically queer style — a theatrical tone that leaves the hunter-killer drones short-circuiting in bewilderment.

---

Supporting Writers Nomination

Jenifer Jorgenson, a paying subscriber to Judith Ashcraft, nominates Synesthesia for the DREAD Reviews treatment!

(Want to nominate a writer you’ve given $ to? Learn how here.)

Synesthesia: Chapter One

Happiness still smells like s███, but after ten years it’s gone gourmet — organic, free-range artisanal kibble poop from pets that eat better than most people.

Ten years of this little family experiment.

I stand at the front of Jacob’s high school auditorium, sweating under fluorescent lights. The banner behind me reads “CAREER DAY 2035” in cheerful bubble letters reeking of melted plastic and broken dreams.

Amber guilt-tripped me into this. She used the big guns: Jacob’s sad-puppy eyes and a quiet little “He’s proud of you, Zodiac. Don’t make the kid lie about what his dad does.”

Dad. The word still lands like a wet sock.

I clear my throat. “So, uh… I’m a truck driver.”

A ripple of fresh-baked bread-boredom drifts across the room. The kids already know this is going to suck. I resist the temptation to lean in and bore them to death — the generic soap anger from the teacher when she sees all the eye-rolling doesn’t mix well with this scent, anyway. In the front row, Jacob looks like a turtle reversing evolution. He’s already sunk so far into his black hoodie that only his eyes and the bridge of his nose are visible.

“Long-haul stuff, mostly,” I continue, keeping it vague. “Cross the desert, haul freight, that kind of thing.”

A kid in the third row smells of grape soda left open too long. This is how I know he’s going to raise his hand.

“What kind of freight?”

I smile the way Amber taught me — not too wide, not like a serial-killer. “Various. Perishable goods. Passengers, sometimes.”

The kid blinks. “Like… hitchhikers?”

“Sure. Hitchhikers. Sometimes people need a ride.” I don’t mention the dog crate. Those days are behind me. Mostly.

Amber sits in the back row, arms crossed, radiating warm vanilla. She gives me a tiny thumbs-up. Moral support, she promised. I know better. She’s enjoying this.

Another hand. A girl this time. She smells like strawberry poptarts 47 seconds into the toaster. “Do you listen to music?”

“On drives? Have to. Empire of the Sun, mostly.” I catch Jacob’s muffled groan. He slides another half inch down in his seat. If he keeps going, he’ll soon be forced to dig.

The smell of cotton candy embarrassment thickens. Jacob’s embarrassment overwhelms the room. Poor kid. Ten years ago I kidnapped, well, “picked up” his sort-of-mom from a Phoenix street corner. How did I go from that to standing in front of his high school? The urge to tell these kids I’m a retired emotional-vampire is strong.

Burned microwave popcorn with a hint of cheap energy drink wafts from a boy sitting next to Jacob. He’s got morbid excitement, he senses there’s more to the story than I’m letting on.

Up goes the hand: “What’s the weirdest thing that ever happened on the road?”

I pause.

I could tell them about the time Amber sang Boyz II Men for six straight hours while I white-knucled the steering wheel and considered driving us off a cliff. Or the time we picked up a hitchhiker and I smelled hot asphalt and singed, hair — he turned out to be carrying a bag of cash and a very bad attitude. Or how Jacob once projectile-vomited in the backseat after too many gas-station taquitos and the car smelled like chunky salsa, cotton candy, and battery acid for three days.

I tell none of these stories. Instead I say, “One time a passenger mistook my air freshener for a scented candle and tried to light it.”

Some laughter. Trying to entertain these kids is like drawing blood from a stone. It doesn’t help their giggles smell of overripe fruit and wet pennies.

Jacob’s resorted to pulling his hoodie strings. They’re so tight only his nostrils are showing, like some kind of whale’s blowhole. His moldy basement panic mixes with the faintest orange blossom — my favorite scent. For a second I feel that old hunger flicker.

Amber catches my eye from the back and raises her brow: Don’t you dare.

Time to wrap it up. “So yeah. Truck driving. It’s a living. Sometimes you pick up passengers on your route. Sometimes they even change your route. Or change… everything.”

The teacher claps first. Polite applause follows — lukewarm tap water and wet cardboard.

Jacob stays seated, face buried in his arms on the desk, marinating in thick, yeasty, bread and cotton candy angst.

I step down from the little stage feeling like I just survived dental surgery without anesthetic.

Later, in the parking lot, Amber slides her arm through mine. She smells like vanilla and pine and that unnamed warm thing I’ve come to associate with not wanting to murder anyone today.

“You did good, Zodiac,” she says.

Jacob shuffles up beside us, hoodie still half-over his face. “Next year I’m telling everyone my dad’s a hitman.”

I ruffle his hair — or try to, through a wad of hoodie.

He groans, but there’s a smile under it. Fresh bread sadness, but underneath — faint, so faint — orange blossoms. Not terror. Just the nervous little fear of a kid whose family is a little weird but love each other anyway.

I breathe it in.

Some smells you chase for years. Others grow on you, whether you want them to or not.

---

Derek James Kritzberg

Bellageist

Did you know I also write fiction, too?

I know, I know. You came here for DREAD Reviews — safe, civilized breakdowns of other people’s trauma. My bad.

But since you had the endurance to make it all the way down here anyway — may I interest you in a 100k-word fever dream about a rage-fueled metallic demigod who just discovered she’s impossibly pregnant?

Nyl just got the most metal pregnancy test in literary history, and she is not thrilled. Cue screaming, synergy hugs, garden therapy with a stunted forever-toddler, and one very clear middle finger to everyone’s carefully laid plans.

If you’re caught up… you already know this one’s gonna hurt in the best way.

If you’re new… congratulations, you picked the perfectly wrong chapter to start with. Enjoy the chaos.

---

Guest Review by QuestionablePenmanship

Hi, I’m QuestionablePenmanship, and my penmanship is not questionable. My sanity, however, very much is.

I write beach reading for surfing the Kali Yuga, for reasons sufficiently esoteric I don’t know them yet.

What Tolkien accomplished for the past, I want to accomplish for the future(-ism). To write about modern times--without writing about modern times.

QuestionablePenmanship’s review of Nala Saga Book One by Anthony Lee Phillips

"Once upon a Moonful Night...

Nala Saga Book One feels like young adult fiction.

Apparently it carries stigma that I feel could apply to certain mainstream reductive authors. Anthony Lee Phillips, not being mainstream yet, is also not reductive. He writes with originality and heart. I will probably hand my niece a tablet with Nala Saga in the future.

Robert A. Heinlein (Praise Be Unto Hein) wrote what we would now call Young Adult Fiction--yes, even the great Starship Troopers was written in that style. As a bulwark against The ‘Gram and The ‘Toc, I fully support fiction aimed at a young adult audience, intended or not. Every Serious Literary Author should publish in that style, for that audience, even if only once. The impulse for post-doctorate loquacious verbosity is stronk, and practicing restraint in terms of volume, verbiage, and vision refines our skills. We overlook communicating ideas to young audiences at our cultural and marketing peril.

Nala Saga Book One is told from a girl’s view. it should use an adolescent’s vocabulary and view of the world--their ideation. Last point on the matter: when you take into account that Phillips constructed an Orcish language from whole cloth for this story, the barebones prose means it could be rendered in his language (as in the people yearn for an Orcish-language audiobook, m’lord).

Book One takes place in the Orcshire, a place Phillips describes as mountainous, rainy, and in the general area of a major ocean inlet. Sweet Salish, this sounds like Puget Sound. Phillips hints that the ecology is unlike what readers expect: the flora is described with unfamiliar colors and no further elaboration. Details like the Orcs lowering drawbridges at night and raising them during the day along with words such as “daymare” suggest they are nocturnal. The ambiguity is refreshing in a real-world creative culture lusting for overexplanation (moi included). After all, why would an orc feel the need to explain their own defaults? You simply mention it matter-of-fact and let readers do double takes and spin their wheels. Delicious.

The protagoness (my word, yes, but also my gift to the world) is a young pistachienne (also my word and also my gift to the world). She’s anxious about her hereditary magic and spending a moody season with her babushka after sulking herself out of the family’s annual merchant journey.

During this sedentary season, the de facto seat of Orcshire, Market Town, has their annual Big Festival. This year a sizable presence of out-of-county orcs fleeing an undescribed war creates tension. Two refugees befriend our protagoness, one a self-described prince of destroyed lands, and another we assume to be a middle-class Orclin’ with glasses and a talent for art.

While her babka tells their creation myths, Nala experiences unexpected stimuli with no apparent source. The reader hears the sounds as Nala perceives them, leaving readers to ponder if this phenomenon is internal, external, or a vision. To a child, otherworldly events feel exactly like this--and explaining them requires the same careful parsing.

First her nonna, and then the town hag, suffer a stroke-like curse. Combined with the arrival of the refugee-prince, Nala’s enmity turns toward a fragmented, mysterious entity. A disquieting misadventure with the displaced prince--climbing a mountain to confront a supernatural entity--and a reckless entry into a vault holding an artifact puts Nala in an unenviable position. She must make a high-stakes decision with unclear terms and ambiguous outcomes. She must then save the town from the consequences.

Conventionally a Book One might end there--but Nala must live with being the right person in the wrong place at the worst possible time. The family’s livelihood goes up in smoke, and the fallout leaves her ostracized, the townsfolk now suspicious of her potentially unholy magic. Her only option: pursue magical tutelage under a bitter reflection of her abuela. The hag is certain Nala cannot handle the anguish of learning magic nor bear the weight of her destiny, which aligns with Orcish eschatology. But with persuasion, the hag reluctantly agrees to Nala’s self-imposed ordeal: learning magic and perhaps subduing destiny.

Book One ends with the displaced prince, once again displaced. Some unsavory characters in a tavern fall victim to the collision of his inner and outer demons. Thus it closes here without clear resolution. A wide domain of possibility lies ahead--and a strong invitation to read on.

A few place names (Market Town, Mount Wraithwood) could perhaps be rendered in Orcish, but these are minor quibbles of mine. My philosophy is ‘better something published than perfect’. Even Tolkien supposedly made edits between printings.

If you want to tap into the mind of an Orcish adolescent, start here.

---

Promoting QuestionablePenmanship

Welcome to the front, crusader.

I named this cycle Swords of Sidonis because it was a play off a party name using real-world etymology, ignorant of how cliché the title is. I later learned it just so happens that my substack is the first result when you search for that title in three search engines. Frankly, I’m pleased with that.

I’m currently working on the end of the first arc, Fail-Deadly, the closing of the in-story campaign that kicks off the crusade that explodes into a continental conflict, and the ancient, undead tyrant chosen for the task. My next story is about an anti-tank sword.

Stories that shock and transgress sensibility, chapters where just beyond what the characters see is the end of an era, medieval priests and warriors who rush towards neon futurism, and an arching cycle summarized by a sentence.

An ancient tyrant is risen from the grave for a world war destined to cross the plains and reach the stars.

DREAD Reviews Table of Contents (Searchable)

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