Thanks again for the weekly Drucraft update. As always very useful and thought provoking. I’m wondering if Stephen would need a room to construct his own well or if it is just a piece of private open space, as I don’t think that essentia is constrained by walls and such? On the other hand he knows, at this stage, where a lot of natural, hidden wells can be found so he may be happy to use those locations.
Hum, perhaps he isn’t thinking at all about this anyway as he (currently) doesn’t have a lot of high power sygls to convert!
I hope that work on Book#4 is progressing well and that the sales of Books#1 & #2 continue to live up to expectations. Sadly, for me, A Judgement of Powers still seems a long way from publication. Six months to go!
State of Paradise (Picador paperback reprint, July 8, 2025). Cover art:
detail from Tiger in a Tropical Storm by Henri Rousseau, 1891
When I was a kid there was a public service announcement on TV that went something like “Attention: Aliens. You are required by law to report by January 31st.” This was because of the Alien Act of 1940, otherwise known as the Smith Act. Basically, the legislation made it illegal to advocate the violent overthrow of the U.S. government and provided for a tracking system of non-citizens who, in the context of Nazi occupation of Eastern Europe and its then alliance with the Soviet Union, were potential suspects of espionage and sabotage. (Fun fact: prosecutions for advocating overthrow of the government have been ruled as unconstitutional violations of the First Amendment, in case you were wondering how any nitwit on social media can mouth off about doing just that.)
But as I didn’t know anything about this, the announcement always conjured an image of big headed, bug-eyed tentacled Martians registering at the local post office. Which I thought pretty funny. One thing I’ve learned over the years, and particularly these days, is that much of what adults say in all seriousness is often funny, but not in a “ha ha” way. More in a Jean Paul Sartre absurdist kind of way.
Needless to say, alien life forms are foundational science fiction, horror, and fantasy tropes. While some genre writers and filmmakers may very well have thought it just might be cool to tell stories about monsters from other worlds, the notion of aliens amongst us primarily serve as metaphors for, among other things, Communists and related usurpers of “normal” socio-political mores, fears of nuclear holocaust, technology run amok, repressed sexual desire, climate change, disease, and disembodiment.
Probably to a large extent due to the COVID-19 pandemic as well as severe climate events such as the California wildfires, today’s alienation storyline is less “aliens amongst us” and more “us alienated from the world.”
Which brings us to State of Paradise by Laura Van Den Berg.
The title is ironic, referring not only to Florida and its reputation as a refuge for the aged retired, the sunburned, and the weird, but that if the existential human condition is sometimes characterized using the Biblical metaphor of banishment from Eden, we currently find ourselves further away from Paradise than ever before.
In Florida, my husband runs. Ten miles a day seventy miles a week. a physical feat that is astonishing to me. He started running after he got stuck on a book he is trying to write, a historical account of pilgrims in medieval Europe. Back then it was not unusual for pilgrims to traverse hundreds of miles on foot… My husband is a trained historian and fascinated by journeys. He wants to understand what has become the pilgrimages in our broken modern world.
The first person narrator is
…a writer, though not a real one, I ghost for a very famous thriller writer. When I first got the job, I spent a month reading books by the famous author, to better understand the task that lay before me… the phrase everything is not as it seems appeared in nearly all the book descriptions.
Indeed, everything is not as it seems as the narrator (a kind of ghost herself) proceeds on a pilgrimage not only through actually weird Florida, where the 1930s Tarzan movies were filmed and non-native Pythons abound alongside Everglades alligators and Disney characters, but an alternate reality to which her sister and others somehow travel. Along the way are treated to torrential rain and flooding, sinkholes, virtual reality headsets, cults, and cats. And voluntary human extinction meetings. Just another day in Paradise.
With a history of being institutionalized, our narrator may be unreliable, and as a writer she is in the business of making things up. Not much cause for cognitive dissonance given the made-up unreliable narratives of our daily news cycle.
The plot, such that it is, concerns finding out what happened to her sister and others during their disappearances. And along the way what is happening to the narrator as she tries to figure out an increasingly strange world that nonetheless comes to define everyday existence. And whether she can trust what she is experiencing and what she remembers of those experiences.
Sometimes I wonder what we are supposed to do with our memories. Sometimes i wonder what our memories are for. A latch slips and the past floods in, knocking us flat. We leave places and we don’t leave places. Sometimes I imagine different versions of myself in all the different places I have ever lived, inching time in parallel.
This is a novel about the proverbial frog in boiling water, how because as the temperature only gradually rises, we don’t realize we’re being cooked. One absurdity follows another, and it is just how things are. We are now the aliens, journeying towards some unsettling destination, and we don’t have to bother to report.
One of the weirdest things about this period of time is the parts that still seem normal. Mundane and non-apocalyptical. Like how one minute we need an inflatable raft to cross the street and another we’re eating pasta at my sister’s house.
Or as Alice Cooper put it, “Welcome to my nightmare.”
David Soyka is one of the founding bloggers at Black Gate. He’s written over 200 articles for us since 2008. His most recent was a review of Polostan by Neal Stephenson.
The Magic Binds full cast dramatized adaptation will be released on Tuesday, March 25th. The preorder is available on the Graphic Audio website, as well as on Audible and all the other usual third party retailers.
Of course, we got sample goodies!
What do you mean, ‘do I need cake right now‘? Kate. Beloved. We ALL need cake right now.
The three Queens guarding the line of Shinar – this Mishmar scene always gives me Canada goose bumps.
There is a third official sample on the preorder page I linked above: Kate and Curran visiting Roman about their wedding. Wedding planner shenanigans: engaged!
The next GA Ilona Andrews releases are:
Burn for Me, Hidden Legacy 1 on April 25th. You can also find find it for preorder on Audible etc.
Magic Triumphs, Kate Daniels 10 on May 20th – there is an update to the date here, it was previously set to come out on May 2nd, but the script is just too epic and Nora never lets a project be just good when she can make it amazing. A spoonful of sugar, intense editing, sound design and lots of loving work makes the final battles and psychotic ancient dragons go down! Ehhh, you know what I mean. Neig wishes. Preorder should go live on third party retailers sometime next week.
I’ve seen some concerned comments wondering how much content will be abridged from Magic Triumphs and Burn for Me because the length of the traditional audiobooks and the length of the dramatized adaptation always appear to have several hours of difference.
Having pored over both scripts, I’m happy to confirm the answer is: virtually nothing was cut! Those were in fact Nora’s first words to me when we started discussing Magic Triumphs, and who can blame her? Certainly not us hehe.
The differences in duration come mainly from the fact that animated dialogue has a different rhythm than a single narrator reading. Dramatized battle scenes, for example, rely a lot more on dynamic back and forth and the majority of GA actors are really embodying the snappy deadpan Ilona and Gordon wrote for their characters. Renee Raudman has her own signature cadence, which is the favourite of so many, but I know a lot of readers prefer to increase the speed of traditional audio.
Audio effects and interpretation can also supplant certain descriptive passages and action tags, with no difference to content. We can hear that the actor is laughing while delivering the line, or that the birds are singing while a conversation is taking place, the narrator doesn’t have to specify it to us.
You can read more about the adaptation process in previous interviews with members of the Graphic Audio team here and here.
I have covered in more detail how to buy and the accessibility of the GA app in this post, which you can also supplement with the Graphic Audio Help FAQ on their website.
The post Magic Binds Samples from Graphic Audio first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.
Nestled among the cobblestone streets of Compiègne, there existed a bakery unlike any other. The…
The post Spotlight on “The Mysterious Bakery on Rue de Paris” by Evie Woods appeared first on LitStack.
Of Men and Monsters, by William Tenn
(Ballantine Books, December 1975). Cover by Boris Vallejo
After posting about The Borrowers by British author Mary Norton (1903 -1992) last week, several people mentioned other books and movies with similar kinds of themes — little people living in the houses of big people. I thought I might take another post to discuss a few other examples from my own book collection.
First up is series by American author John Peterson (1924 – 2002). The first one was just called The Littles and was published in 1967, 15 years after The Borrowers (1952). The Littles live much like the “borrowers. They look human except for having tails. (In films they apparently look very mouselike but that’s not the case in the books.)
[Click the images for less little versions.]
Unlike with The Borrowers, I never heard of The Littles until I was buying books for my own son, (Josh), even though many were written when I was a kid. I stopped by Josh’s school to pick him up one day and they were having the Scholastic Book fair.
When I was a kid, we never had a fair where you could actually see the books, but we did get the order forms and I bought quite a few books through them for 25 cents or so when in grade school. I had to stop by this one at my son’s school and found out about The Littles. I bought every one they had, ostensibly for my son but at least halfway for myself. I read them all, too, although I don’t think Josh read them all.
There are a bunch of these books and more were written after Peterson’s death, but here are the ones I have. All covers are by Jacqueline Rogers, with charming interior illustrations by Roberta Carter Clark. (These are written specifically for children and I don’t think the stories are as good as in The Borrowers series, but they are fun.)
The Littles, 1967
The Littles have a Wedding, 1971
The Littles and the Trash Tinies, 1977
The Littles Go Exploring, 1978
The Littles and the Lost Children, 1991
The Littles and the Terrible Tiny Kid, 1993
In my twenties I came upon another series about tiny people. This was a trilogy by Gordon Williams (1934 – 2017) that included The Micronauts (1977), The Microcolony (1979), and Revolt of the Micronauts (1981) — all from Bantam Books.
These are SF novels, not to be confused with the toy series and comic book series from Marvel with the same name — which I’d never heard of until I started looking into stuff for this post. The difference here is normal sized people are cloned at 1/8th their natural size in order to deal with a catastrophic future where most natural resources have been exhausted. The experiment is set up in a controlled environment but things soon get out of control.
I liked all three very much and they had some cool covers. The Micronauts has a Boris Vallejo cover and interior illustrations. The Microcolony has a wonderful Lou Feck cover that I love. Revolt has a Peter Goodfellow cover.
Of Men and Monsters, by William Tenn
(Ballantine Books, June 1968). Cover by Stephen Miller
The last book I’ll review today is one of the first adult SF novels I ever read, Of Men and Monsters, by William Tenn (1920 – 2010). It’s still a fond memory. Tenn was the pseudonym for a British born author named Phillip Klass, although he moved to the US before he was 2. The book was published in 1968 and I read it in a library edition, but years later I bought a Del Rey printing with a great cover by Boris Vallejo (see top).
This one has its own twist on the theme. The people are normal sized, but they are survivors of an invasion by gigantic aliens so huge that the humans can live like mice in their walls. I just loved it, and found out from Adam Tuchman on Facebook that it was originally published in a shorter version in the October 1963 issue of Galaxy, called “The Men in the Walls.”
Galaxy, October 1963, containing “The Men in the Walls,” plus stories
by Cordwainer Smith, Murray Leinster, and more. Cover by McKenna
I’ll note that the ending Of Men and Monsters takes us into Sword & Planet territory.
There are plenty more I could talk about here, such as Lindsay Gutteridge’s Cold War in a Country Garden Trilogy, and Ben Sheppard reminded me of an awesome story called “Surface Tension” by James Blish, which deals with the miniaturization theme. There’s Asimov’s Fantastic Voyage, and even the movie Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, but this post is getting long as it is.
Charles Gramlich administers The Swords & Planet League group on Facebook, where this post first appeared. His last article for Black Gate was And Now For Something Completely Different: The Borrowers, by Mary Norton.
Here are 7 Author Shoutouts for this week. Find your favorite author or discover an…
The post 7 Author Shoutouts | Authors We Love To Recommend appeared first on LitStack.
I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.
The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones
Mogsy’s Rating: 4.5 of 5 stars
Genre: Horror
Series: Stand Alone
Publisher: Saga Press (March 18, 2025)
Length: 448 pages
Author Information: Website
At its heart, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter may be a vampire novel, but it’s about so much more that calling it such would be doing it a great disservice. Yes, the story involves undead, blood-drinking creatures. However, it is also a meditation on the scars of history, and, like any good western, features a tale of vengeance. In short, Stephen Graham Jones has created something far more complex than your typical vampire horror here.
The novel opens in 2012 with an introduction to Etsy Beaucarne, a junior professor at the University of Wyoming who is desperately looking for a way to revitalize her career. Her opportunity arrives when she comes into possession of a long-lost journal belonging to her great-great-grandfather, a Lutheran priest who lived in the American West in the early 1900s. Within its pages, Arthur Beaucarne had transcribed a stunning confession from a Blackfeet man named Good Stab who claimed to be an immortal vampire.
Through Good Stab’s recorded testimony, readers are plunged even farther back in time to the brutal winter of 1870, when US Army soldiers carried out the Marias Massacre that left hundreds of his people dead. Good Stab, one of the few survivors, swore that he would get his revenge, spending the next few decades hunting down those responsible. Yet his survival came at a heavy price. After losing his family, his home, and even his place in the world, Good Stab’s path changes his life forever. Possessed of both immense power and an insatiable hunger, he knows what happened to him is a curse—but it’s also one he can wield as a weapon against those who destroyed everything he once knew.
From the start, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter’s frame structure brings to mind Dracula, which is not the only nod to the classic. Stephen Graham Jones continues his homage with the epistolary style format, enhancing the story’s eerie, almost folktales-y like atmosphere. Despite its supernatural elements though, some of the most disturbing aspects of the novel are the parts rooted in reality—particularly the history of Indigenous genocide and the annihilation of the buffalo.
In Good Stab’s account, he wasn’t merely seeking revenge for the slaughter of his people, but also for the destruction of his whole way of life. His vampirism not only holds him forever in a state of constant hunger but also traps him in an endless cycle of rage and grief. Immortality offers him no peace but instead forces him to witness more loss as the years stretch on. This makes Good Stab one of the most interesting and tragic characters I’ve ever encountered. He isn’t a hero or a villain—just a man and then a creature driven by circumstance.
Like most vampire stories, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is unsurprisingly violent and gory. That said, its horror manifests itself in lowkey, slow-burn ways as well. The author’s prose captures the harshness of the frontier, an unforgiving landscape where you are constantly struggling to survive. Though the pacing may be demanding at times, this story simply must be experienced on its own terms, requiring your full attention. With its mix of so many elements from history, mythology, and horror, this is not a book to be rushed but to be absorbed slowly, allowing its haunting themes to fully take hold.
If I had any criticisms at all, it would be that some parts of the story become repetitive at times, especially with regards to the interactions between Arthur and Good Stab. While this back and forth served to reinforce the narrative style, I think the novel could have packed the same emotion punch without being quite so long, and some streamlining would have been beneficial.
In the end, I absolutely loved The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, as in, it just might be my favorite book by the author yet. While it’s not the easiest read, the end results are satisfying and rewarding. Stephen Graham Jones’ storytelling skills are on full display here, and it would make me very happy to see him tackle more historical horror like this sin the future. Granted, I haven’t enjoyed everything he’s written, but when he’s good, he very good. And with this novel, he’s proven once again why he is one of the most important voices in the genre today. If you enjoy horror with depth, especially one exploring a dark chapter of American history, this is a must read.
The only choice is surrender. In my world, magic and danger go hand-in-hand. It has from my earliest memory. Magic was currency, and if you have it, you have power. I was shaped by some of the most influential Druids into a lethal weapon. Their weapon. Until the night they betray me—and I wind up...
The post New Release – Blood Skye appeared first on Donna Grant.
Mod R presented me with a list of questions. Let us get to it.
When will the preorder be availlable?
We don’t know. Well, that was easy. The usual MO is to wait until the cover is done because people tend to preorder in higher numbers once the cover is up. Maybe having the cover is proof that the book exists?
When will the cover be available?
We don’t know that either. I’m knocking these out of the park today.
Can you make Tor publish it faster?
Hahahaha. No.
Will there be opportunities for signed books or bookplates?
Absolutely.
Will there be a e-book and audio version or just print?
There will be all the things. Tor is fully behind this release. So here is how this book sold: it went to several publishers on Thursday and on Friday morning Tor came back with an offer so impressive, that our agent called for an emergency zoom meeting to discuss it. They read it that evening, and they really wanted this book. So there will be everything: ebook, print, audio. The whole kaboodle. We’ve discussed maps and extras.
Will there be special editions/ hardcovers/ book boxes, since it’s Tor? We want all the special editions (Fairyloot, Broken Binding, Forbidden Planet and Illumicrate mentioned specifically)
We don’t know. But our personal feeling is that yes, there likely will be special editions. We are working on some extra scenes, deleted scenes, and so on.
Can you share a cover artist at least? Are you using Luisa Preissler?
We don’t know who the cover artist is. No idea. It probably will not be an object cover, simply because there have been so many of them that it’s hard to come up with a new distinct image. The direction is more toward illustrative rather than graphic. And that’s all I can say.
A note about Luisa Preissler: Luisa recently changed her creative direction. She is taking a break from covers and is working on landscapes instead. She now paints beautiful gouache art. Here is that story in Luisa’s own words and images, and here is how her first gallery went.
(She is teaching a class on her Patreon and I really want to take it. I haven’t yet, because I paint very, very badly. Like hilariously badly. Only my singing is worse.)
So although Hugh 1’s cover is in desperate need of a makeover and we would love her to do both Hugh 1 and 2, we are not sure that she will have an opening in her schedule. We will definitely bring it up, but we might have to go in the new direction.
And now you know why sometimes we do things other than sequels to the beloved series. Artists, writers, and musicians don’t usually stay in one lane. Creativity is a layered, branching expression of one’s inner self. As we go through life, the direction of creativity changes because we are affected by events that happen to us and the world around us. It is the natural evolution of us as human beings.
Will it be translated into French/ German/ Spanish etc?
Probably. Let me tell you a little bit about foreign rights so you will have a cool industry insight.
Twice a year, the publishing world gets together at two major book fairs: London and Frankfurt. The Frankfurt one is held in Germany and it is the largest book fair based on the sheer number of publishers who attend. It usually happens in October. London Book Fair, which is almost as large, is happening this week, March 11-13. It is held in London, to no one’s surprise, and both our agency and Tor will have a presence.
These are not reader-centric events, but rather events where publishers and agents from all over the world get together and talk about upcoming projects and sell and buy foreign (to them) rights.
While we don’t expect to have offers from foreign publishers, because the final edit was just turned in and hasn’t been accepted yet, This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me, and this was so long to type, let’s call it This Kingdom for short, This Kingdom will be “a topic of conversation.” At least that’s what our agent told us.
To sum up: yes, we expect interest from foreign publishers and we will let you know what is happening with that when we know something ourselves.
Does that mean you are going to London?
No, London Book Fair is not for the authors. But we would love to go to London. And Ireland.
Why are you using comps to announce the book?
We are not. Tor is using comps to announce the book. Comps are mostly for industry insiders to let them quickly identify what the book is about. For some reason, you guys are really concentrating on them, but it is a minor detail.
Will the series be called Maggie the Undying?
Yes. We all loved Maggie as a title, but unfortunately it’s really hard to go to book 2 with it. Something has to beat out the Undying. And then you end up with Maggie the Undaunted or something equally silly.
Is it a series or a standalone?
It is definitely not a standalone. The original plan was for three. The caveat here is that Book 1 ended up being enormous, so Book 2 will likely be equally so, and we may pack the story into two books instead of three. But for now, three is where it is.
Are the 808 pages Word pages or formatted pages and what will be the final length of the book?
So if you take Magic Bites and Magic Burns and put them together, that will be about the right thickness. Typical KD was 90-95K, because the publisher wanted it that way, and this is around 180K.
Is there romance or isn’t there? How spicy is it?
It has strong romantic elements, meaning that you can yank romance out of the book and it would be still make sense. Like Kate books – you can remove Kate and Curran’s relationship and they will still make sense. The romance is slow burn. You will just have to read it.
So is this a twist on the concept from Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint?
Oh good question. Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint is a manhwa, a Korean comic, and a webnovel.
The manhwa is available on Webtoon and the official translation of the webnovel might have been up for preorder some time recently. Not sure about that one.
ORV throws the reader into his favorite book as a character. He starts tugging at strings and influencing events. This is a common trope used by a lot of portal (isekai) manhwa and anime.
The variation on that is being thrown into a video game. If you are in the market for an anime with that theme, there are so many, but I want to mention two here just for fun. First, My Next Life as a Villainess: All Routes Lead to Doom! The heroine ends up stuck as a villainess in the dating video game with hilarious results. Vegetables! All the vegetables ever.
The trailer, which is below, doesn’t do it justice. This anime is available on Crunchyroll. Although the trailer is subbed, the anime is dubbed and the dub is pretty good. (Link for newsletter readers.)
Once you watch that, there is this gem in Hidive.
From Bureaucrat to Villainess: Dad’s Been Reincarnated! has the exact same premise, but he is a middle aged dad, which leads to ridiculous moments, such as him telling another girl that her presence in the magical academy could mean only one thing – her parents love her very much and they want her to succeed.
But back to the Omniscient Reader, yes, This Kingdom has the similar premise of a reader being thrown into a book and changing events as they unfold. But Omniscient Reader is structured like a LitRPG, meaning it has a video-game like narrative. The character goes through a sequence of escalating fights with emphasis on classes and skills. It has more in common with Solo Leveling than Maggie.
(That genre is super fun. In fact, we are working on a very derivative novella in that genre on and off in our spare time because it’s been nagging at me and Gordon suggested that we need to download it onto page and out of my brain.)
This Kingdom has zero LitRPG elements. It is all about political intrigue and fantasy kingdoms, which is where the GOT comparison comes from. There are no defined classes or skills, there is no system window, etc. There are heists and murders and to quote Maggie, “Deadly swordmasters, thieves prowling through moonlit streets, dark magicians, ruthless nobles, hideous monsters…” It’s is meant to be an archetypical fantasy.
So a little bit different. A better comp would be the Lout of Count’s Family, which is available on Tapas. Highly recommend. And now we have it in novel form, available on Amazon and presumably everywhere else. Tada!
I haven’t read the novel, but the manhwa is awesome. He is the best dragon dad ever.
Since Maggie is getting sprayed edges, is there any news for a Kate hardcover/sprayed edges, uniform box set release?
We don’t know anything about sprayed edges or where they will go or what they will look like. We first saw it on Tor’s announcement.
We’ve brought up the possibility of reissuing KD in hardcover to Ace, which originally published that series. They are not interested in pursuing that at this time. As much as we all love Kate, it’s an older series.
How are you feeling about all of this?
Cautiously excited. For me there is a little bit of a disconnect, because in my head Maggie was a small weird book, and now This Kingdom reads like a medieval thriller. The book has grown bigger and more vivid. But despite the many editorial passes – or maybe because of them – I love the story. I love the world. I love Maggie and her fierce fandom heart. We both hope you will enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.
The post All the Questions first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.
Because We Must by Tracy Youngblom is a candid exploration of motherhood and grief Please…
The post Learning to Live and Love | “Because We Must” a Memoir appeared first on LitStack.
Good afterevenmorn!
I hope everyone who has to suffer through the daylight savings shift Sunday are coping with losing that hour of sleep. To those to whom that does not apply, know that I am fiercely jealous of you. But let’s not dwell on our minor hardships. Today, I want to talk about writing, and very specifically how to make situations that are absolutely ridiculous on the outside feel real and very serious.
This came to me as I walked home from work today, thinking of my serialised novel (online on my blog every Friday until it concludes… look at me dropping a plug). It has, if you were to distill it down, the silliest, most ridiculous premise you could possibly imagine: Zombies, but make them hyper-aggressive, human-sized fairies.
Yup.
It’s so dumb. On the outside of it. And to be fair, I had so much fun writing it; giggling like a twit at how silly it all actually is. I take great delight in pointing out the hilariously ridiculousness of the premise. If I managed to do it well, then it will feel a good deal more serious than it seems when you distill it. If I pulled it off, it won’t feel how ridiculous it is. Whether I did or not is not really for me to decide, but here are some things I did in an effort to make it work. Maybe they’re something you can think about if you find yourself in a similar situation.
1. The situation might be ridiculous, but your characters don’t know that.
Let’s be honest. If you’re fighting for your life in a city that has been overtaken by a swarm of mindless winged humanoid killers, you’re probably going to be too busy trying to survive to worry about how silly it all actually is. That might come later, after you have done the surviving. If your characters treat their situation seriously (and it kinda is; they’re fighting for their lives), it’ll be much easier for your readers to suspend their disbelief while reading it. They’ll buy human-sized fairies attacking in swarms and consuming a city of millions in less than twenty-four hours.
It will probably also help to have at least one character who is familiar with really weird situations. Think of Mulder and Scully in the X-Files. They’re constantly facing things that, on the outside, are completely unbelievable, even ridiculous. But it works precisely because they take it seriously when they’re in the moment, and Mulder is a believer. However weird or out there a situation is, Mulder just accepts is as fact and rolls with it. It makes it easy for the viewer to do the same.
2. The situation is ridiculous, and your characters absolutely know it.
This isn’t an and/or situation with number one, trust me. If I found myself facing a mindless winged humanoid, I would absolutely demand of no one in particular what the actual f[redacted]. Having a character call out the idiocy of the situation they find themselves in — while taking it very seriously — is may be a way to get readers on board. This is especially true if the world you’ve built is encountering the situation for the first time.
If winged humanoids are a normal thing in the world, then having a character acknowledge how stupid that seems, will probably distance the reader and make it hard for them to suspend their own disbelief. However, if these creatures are not a part of your characters’ every day reality then having someone be absolutely incredulous at the situation they face will help your reader relate, making it easier for them to sink into the story.
It works for me, in any case. If the characters I’m reading aren’t absolute morons that question absolutely nothing, then I’m much more amenable to accept the scenarios they’re put through. Mind you, I’m not an especially critical reader, so I get sucked into stories a lot more frequently than most. It is both a blessing and a curse.
3. Keep it grounded
This might sound impossible, given the fantastic situation you’re trying to create, but keeping it as grounded as possible will help. There are a number of ways to do this. Providing real consequences for mistakes is one. Have people get hurt, or die. People will suffer in these situations if they ever actually happened; there will be grief, and fear, and anger. You’re already stretching incredulity with the situation. Have everyone dancing along unscathed will be pushing it much too far. This is especially important if it’s not taking place in a world that is easily relatable. I got a leg up, because the serial is set in a fictional city, but in the real world and set in 2024. There are a lot of touchstones that are easily digested for a reader.
It becomes harder if the entire world is fantastical. Finding something grounding in a world where trees talk or teleport, or whatever, is much harder. It’s not impossible, though. Find those touchstones and use them.
Did I achieve creating a story that brings people along and has them absolutely invested while also having gate silliest premise I think I could possibly conjure? No idea. But I tried, and I used these three (and other) things in the attempt. Maybe they’ll help you, too. If you’ve read books or are currently writing one which has an absolutely ridiculous premise, let me know what, and what worked (or didn’t). If you have any tips of your own for making a silly premise both believable and feel serious, also let me know in the comments below.
When S.M. Carrière isn’t brutally killing your favorite characters, she spends her time teaching martial arts, live streaming video games, and cuddling her cat. In other words, she spends her time teaching others to kill, streaming her digital kills, and a cuddling furry murderer. Her most recent titles include Daughters of Britain, Skylark and Human. Her serial The New Haven Incident is free and goes up every Friday on her blog.
I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.
Rose of Jericho by Alex Grecian
Mogsy’s Rating: 4 of 5 stars
Genre: Horror
Series: Stand Alone
Publisher: Nightfire (March 11, 2025)
Length: 352 pages
Author Information: Website
Rose of Jericho by Alex Grecian returns to the dark and supernatural world first introduced in Red Rabbit, his 1880s western horror novel. While this is technically a follow-up that revisits the witchy trio of Sadie Grace, Rabbit, and Rose, it still stands solidly on its own, allowing new readers to jump in without needing prior knowledge. And personally, I found this new book to be even stronger and more immersive than its predecessor.
The book begins with a tragedy. A man named Moses Burke loses both his beloved wife and newborn child, and in his grief, takes on Death himself and murders him. Readers are transported back to the remote village of Ascension, Massachusetts, where the result of Death’s absence is subsequently illustrated in a bizarre string of events that go against the natural order. A gruesome accident that should have killed a boy instead leaves him walking around with a hole in his chest. Likewise, a terminally ill woman finds that the progression of her disease has halted, so she can suddenly get out of bed and go about her day. A hanged man calls out while still hanging from the noose, even with his neck broken and eyes pecked out by crows. And on and on it goes. It appears people can no longer die! While this revelation is met with confusion, there is also no small amount of excitement.
However, the longer this reality persists, the more the town and its residents are feeling its dark effects. Inside, those who should have been dead are changing, becoming more dangerous. Newly arrived in town, Rabbit, Sadie Grace, and Rose watch as chaos descends upon Ascension. As the three women attempt to find out what’s going on, they must also contend with the restless entities that haunt Bethany Hall, the old house they are staying in while they help take care of Rose’s sick cousin.
Unsurprisingly, Rose of Jericho delves into some thought-provoking themes, questioning the significance of mortality by exploring the balance between life and death. The Grim Reaper is literally killed off in a fit of rage, and the ripples created by this one impulsive act result in grave consequences for everyone on the planet. For the deeply religious townsfolk of Ascension, you can just imagine their struggle to reconcile their beliefs with what’s happening around them, and though readers only get to see the effects on this one little slice of the world, we can easily surmise that all hell has broken loose across the globe as well.
Speaking of Ascension, the author also does a fantastic job of bringing the town to life, making it feel even more vivid and immersive than I remember from Red Rabbit. This sort-of sequel gave us a chance to see more of the town, providing a deeper look into its people, customs, and day-to-day struggles—though admittedly, describing their “daily life” takes on a more sinister meaning when we’re talking about a world where no on can truly die. As the characters go on existing in this strange limbo, we watch some of them embrace what they believe is a gift or miracle, while others who are more skeptical end up succumbing to fear and paranoia.
All in all, Rose of Jericho is a unique dark fantasy novel that balances horror and grim humor while providing plenty of food for thought. The overall vibe is a mixture of eerie gothic and surreal western, presenting a weird but refreshing premise that keeps the story engaging and unpredictable. I found Alex Grecian’s prose and character work to be much stronger here than in Red Rabbit, but whether you’re returning to this world or a complete newcomer, I believe Rose of Jericho is an interesting and strange journey worth taking.
Caitlin Carter seeks purpose. She needs to, or so her counselors at the VA keep telling her. Find a reason to live. Forget the past.
The past haunts her, especially because she lives in her old hometown. The place where the trouble started.
Until she finds exploring her past might help her find a future…just not the way she expects.
A powerful story about veterans and the traumas they continue to face even at home.
“Rehab” is available for one week on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores, as well as here.
Rehab By Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Not quite homeless. That’s how she described herself to herself. Not quite homeless but not quite home, either.
Caitlin Carter started her walk back from her appointment at the VA. The stately old building had been at the edge of mansion row for more than forty years, as the neighborhood slowly slipped into decline.
She barely saw it any more. She grew up only a few blocks away, and the mansions had never really been at their peak—not in her lifetime.
She wore two stocking caps over her skull, one pulled down almost to her eyebrows, and two pairs of gloves over her hands, which she still stuck in her pockets. One of the many gifts of her desert tours was a broken internal thermometer—light cold seemed too cold, harsh cold seemed warm, deadly cold felt welcoming—and she made sure she dressed like the sensible Midwestern girl she had been, back before she decided to chuck it all for the sake of some excitement or (oh, hell, let’s be honest) to tell her law-and-order father to go fuck himself.
So many issues, so little time. At least that was what she joked with the shrink the last time she heard, “I’m afraid our time is up.” Yeah, she always just got started, and then the time was up, and she was sent into the cold, literally, at least this winter.
No matter what she did, she couldn’t get her parents out of her mind. She’d moved back in with them six months ago—not in her old bedroom because that belonged to some other girl. A girl who graduated high school, smiled wide, dressed in pink, and had totally dorky boyfriends. A girl with trophies on her shelf from volleyball tournaments, certificates from math contests framed over her bed, and one rather nasty juvie file in a shadow box below a shattered mirror.
Yeah, that girl had issues.
The woman has more.
She lived in the grandmother apartment over her parents’ garage. One bedroom, half kitchen, tiny bathroom, ugly living area. The smell of exhaust filled the place every time her father moved the car.
She found the smell of exhaust comforting.
She needed comforting, because the apartment wasn’t. Her parents weren’t either. Her mother couldn’t meet her eyes, even now, and her father, for all his talk of wasted potential, still mentioned that one night, the joyride, the anger, the accident, leading to what would’ve been a couple of felonies had she been one week older, or had Michael actually died of his injuries.
Caitlin had told her father she hadn’t known Michael had put a gun in her glove box and carried a knife inside his boot. She claimed she hadn’t known about the weapons till she and Michael had ripped off the liquor store that failed to serve them, and sped off, crashing through the windows of a car dealership not half a block away.
Not the worst thing that happened to her, by far.
The thing her father blamed, though. Technically, he hadn’t paid off the judge, but she knew there was a tit-for-tat, probably dealing with secrets. Her father loved secrets, knew where the bodies were buried, liked to haul out the skeletons when he needed them.
And he’d needed them that night, when he traded her years in a juvie facility and/or some prison somewhere for mandatory military service. Sounded like punishment to her at the time.
Life-saving, turned out.
She carefully picked her way across the ice-covered street, to the unshoveled sidewalks of mansion row. Her breath fanned out around her like exhaust from the engines of a dozen jeeps.
It had taken nearly a year to work her way up the VA’s waiting list. Counselors—especially those dealing with the psychological problems—were in high demand.
Her problems had started long before she joined up, got exacerbated by her tours. If it weren’t for the nightmares—the screaming, pound-her-fist-through-the-wall nightmares—she probably wouldn’t have signed up for counseling in the first place.
Thrown out of three separate apartments at the far end of town. License restricted for driving drunk, which limited her choices—especially here, where the phrase “bus service” was an oxymoron and public transportation meant taking a tourist trolley that circled the downtown.
She had to move close to the VA because if she missed one appointment, just one, she got knocked down to the bottom of the waiting list again, and much as she hated the shrink talk and the sharing and the crappy way she felt when the sessions were over, she hated not having someone to talk to—really talk to—worse.
So she walked, every day, even when it was ten below, like today. No matter what her mother said, Caitlin didn’t wear a ski mask over her face—that would bring back flashbacks to high school and the rebellion and the power-high she got from pulling cash from some stupid clerk’s till. (Okay, so she had known about the gun, but she’d only told the shrink that last week. It’d been her gun (which she stole from another kid’s locker), and Michael had been too injured to ever contradict her—at least when it counted, during the so-called court case, the judgment that sent her on the path that led to this icy sidewalk, this everyday walk.)
She tucked her chin inside the parka, letting the fake fur caress her face. Whenever she felt the fake fur, she knew she was okay—not too cold—because if she were too cold, she’d feel nothing at all.
Time to walk back to the undecorated apartment and wait until she had to show up for one of her three five-hour shifts at the nearby coffee shop, the only place that would hire vets and let them be around people. Didn’t matter that most of the customers were also vets. Didn’t matter that she rarely said more than “That’ll be $2.50” and “Here’s your change, sir.” At least she got out of the house.
Or so she said to herself.
She saved the mansion for the way back. She loved the mansion. She had loved it since she was a child.
She used to walk down this stately old boulevard near her parents’ house, and imagine living in the mansions. Back then, they were apartments, mostly, although some were still single-family dwellings. All had fallen on hard times, or so everyone thought.
But even harder times had been on the horizon.
Now most of the mansions were boarded up, with plywood over the windows and doors. Her favorite was on the corner of two boulevards, and it seemed to take up half the block. When she was a kid, an old lady lived there, alone. Sometimes Caitlin saw the old lady, tottering her way to the really fancy car that she left parked in the driveway.
But mostly, Caitlin wondered how one person could live in such a large place. It had three stories, plus an attic and a basement and the biggest garage Caitlin had ever seen.
She used to hoist herself up on top of the stone fence and peer into the yard, imagining what it would be like to own the house. Then the old lady called the cops on her, and Caitlin never climbed the fence again.
She had forgotten about the place until she lost her last apartment, and walked to her parents’ house when the VA admitted it couldn’t help her if she didn’t help herself. They said she needed meaning in her life. She needed purpose. They meant she had to get treatment for her anxiety and PTSD and all-around out-of-control behavior.
But she took it as the one final wake-up call.
Because as she walked those four blocks to her parents’ house to beg for a place to stay, she kept looking at the ruined homes on the dying boulevard and thinking how easy it would be to slip inside one, and squat for a few days, a few months, and no one would ever be the wiser.
That was her backup plan if her parents officially threw her out. When she arrived at her parents’ to beg for her old room back, her mother had made that thin-lipped disapproving grimace that always made Caitlin’s stomach queasy, but her father had just stared at her. He’d had something in his gaze she’d never seen before.
“Yeah,” he’d said. “We’ll fix up the apartment over the garage.”
She could have taken that badly—that they didn’t want her inside their house. But Caitlin had a sense that her father understood what it took for her to ask, and, even weirder, had understood what she needed. What she needed was a place of her own where no one would bother her, and yet, a place where someone kept an eye out for her.
She offered to pay rent, and he told her to bank the money instead. And somehow, that conversation had left her more shaken than any conversation she’d ever had with him—including the angry ones over her terrible behavior in her seventeenth year.
That walk, though—that walk through the mansions, in the long-dead, formerly rich area of town—that walk was the moment when she labeled herself almost-homeless, when she knew she had only a hairsbreadth between being someone with a glimmer of a future and being someone who only had a past.
Every day since, she’d used the mansion as a measuring stick: Was she better? Had she moved forward?
And every day, she had no answer at all.
She stood outside on this cold, cold afternoon and stared at the mansion, with its wrap-around porch, columns, and gabled attic. When she first came on these regular walks, she wondered what the neighbors thought of her staring at the place, and then she realized there were no neighbors.
The neighborhood was as empty as some of the bombed-out places she had patrolled in Fallujah. Someone had lived here once, but no one did now.
No one cared.
The storm the night before had dumped nearly two feet of snow on the neighborhood. No one had shoveled sidewalks, because no one cared. A plow had gone through and tossed even more snow on the sidewalk. There was no real path, only an icy trail of footprints that she had made at the beginning of the winter.
She frowned at the mansion. If she stared at it, and let her eyes blur, it looked no different than it had when the old lady had lived there.
But if Caitlin really looked at it, she realized the house was falling apart, like every other place on this block.
And the snow the night before would only make things worse.
She slipped through the broken gate. No one had shoveled the mansion’s sidewalk either. The only way she had known there was a sidewalk was from memory, the way the brick walk went from the stone fence to the matching stone steps that eased the journey up the small knoll the mansion rested on.
Her boots crunched on the snow’s hard surface, breaking through to a layer of ice beneath. The door ahead looked dark and foreboding, and, unlike the rest of the building’s façade, had no snow plastered against it.
If she were in an old movie, her breath might have come shallowly and she might’ve felt some trepidation. But she knew, she knew, no snipers sat in the windows, no family waited with guns in hand, no insurgent had planted a bomb beneath the stairs.
Maybe she would have worried about such things six months before, but she’d had six months to wrap her brain around the reality of now, not the memory of then, and no matter how bad it might get inside a mansion in her hometown, it would be nothing compared with what she’d seen.
What she’d done.
That last thought made her heart flutter just a bit. She took a deep breath of air so cold that it burned going into her lungs.
She made herself focus on her destination, and as she did so, she realized that the door was partially open. Snow had piled against it, making sure it would never close.
Open all winter, the mansion’s decay would accelerate. No one would come here and check—not the city historical division which was trying to sell the place, not the police, not the imaginary neighbors. No one would notice this; no one would understand it.
No one except her.
She continued forward, up another, smaller flight of stairs, and then crossed the pristine layer of snow to the house itself.
She had never stepped on the porch, not in years of dreaming about it. Up close, the porch looked dangerous. In the places where the snow did not blanket the surface, she saw rotted wood and broken beams.
The mansion’s stone exterior needed some kind of grout or something—whatever they put between the stones—and the door wasn’t open, so much as it wasn’t really intact.
Ah hell, she might as well be honest with herself: The door was shattered, and the snow that accumulated near the opening was as deep as the snow around the building.
Even though she had stared at the thing for months, she hadn’t realized that it had been snowing inside since winter began.
She put her hand on one of the stone columns that made the mansion look so stately.
She pushed past the broken door, stepped over the biggest mound of snow, and felt her heart sink as she saw how deep the snow had piled inside.
The house was as cold inside as it was out, but the air didn’t have the fresh crispness of the outdoors. It smelled faintly sour, and she knew, if the inside were any warmer, that sour smell would grow into something overpowering.
Still, she felt almost like a child as she stepped inside the foyer. To her right was the receiving room. It still had its dark wood wainscoting, but someone had painted the area between the end of the wainscoting and the crown molding a bright pink. She winced when she saw it, and when she saw the cracked and ruined fireplace (as if someone had gone after it with a bat), and the toppled radiator.
Each room she walked through had damage—a rotted floor, dented plaster and lathe, missing light fixtures. The kitchen had no appliances. It looked like they—and the sink—had been ripped from the wall. A large stain near the water pipe where the sink had been made her think that water had flowed steadily since the sink was gone—until a deep freeze froze the pipes.
She didn’t want to think about that damage—or any of the damage she couldn’t really see.
Still, here and there, she saw traces of love. This house had been grand once, and then when it was no longer grand, someone had still cared for it enough to keep its character.
The damage didn’t look fresh, but it didn’t look decades old either. The house had good bones beneath all the garbage and the destruction.
She ventured to the back staircase. Part of it threaded down into a basement, and she just couldn’t bring herself to go there, not on the coldest day of the year so far. But upstairs—she had always wanted to see upstairs.
The staircase twisted upward, working its way around two corners. It opened in a narrow hallway, and she realized with a bit of a shock that this house actually had a servant’s wing. Two small bedrooms separated by the tiniest jack-and-jill bathroom she’d ever seen convinced her of that. The bathroom was 1950s vintage, and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in at least forty years.
The door to the hallway was closed. She pushed it open, the squeal echoing in the emptiness. Her heart started pounding now.
She recognized the feeling. A sense that she didn’t belong, combined with experience from a dozen (maybe a hundred) entries into seemingly empty buildings, only to have someone jump out at her, or a hand clutch her arm, holding her back just in time to save her from danger.
She was slipping, slipping into memory. She recognized the feeling, and she caught herself. She didn’t dare leave this place—this frigid and empty house, a building she had always wanted to visit.
It wasn’t dangerous here.
It was just broken.
Rather like her.
Amazing how broken could seem dangerous when viewed in the wrong light.
She took a deep breath and made herself walk forward. Two medium-sized bedrooms. A remodeled bathroom with a claw foot tub and a glassed-in shower added at least thirty years before.
The stained glass window over the toilet made her realize that nothing had been broken or stolen up here. Apparently the thieves from downstairs hadn’t ventured up this high.
She let out a small sigh, then continued on, to what had to be the master suite. Rays of thin winter light penetrated the hallway. The sour stench seemed stronger here, probably because this level was just a tiny bit warmer.
She stepped into the bedroom—and stopped.
A camp stove, blankets, a sleeping bag, some books, all scattered near the fireplace. Half burned wood rested against the fireplace’s brick wall.
And next to it all, a person wrapped in blankets.
Or what was left of a person.
She had seen enough death to know that death had come and gone from this room at least a week ago, maybe more.
She swallowed hard, looked at the little camping area, saw that whoever this had been had managed to clear the fireplace, but either the flue was closed or there was a block in the chimney, because soot covered too much of the area around the body.
A pitcher, with ice along the rim, sat beside the fireplace. Her heart twisted.
He—and it had been a he—had put out the fire rather than burn the house down. Respect, to the bitter end.
She crouched before him, saw the dog tags first, maybe because she had looked for the dog tags first. His face was too ruined for her to tell what he looked like, but if he tried to live here and he was a vet, she had a hunch she had seen him before.
He had stolen her idea of living in one of the mansions so that he could be close to the VA, only he hadn’t thought it through. Sleeping in one of these old places was fine in summer and maybe okay in early fall, but on days like this, the house needed more than a single fireplace, and if that wasn’t working, well…
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
She rocked back on her heels and stood.
She wasn’t feeling cold any more, but it wasn’t her broken thermostat. She’d learned how to cope with death. Four tours, and death no longer bothered her.
The means of death, that sometimes did. The roadside bomb (God, the truck flew. She should have warned them. Should. Have…), the single shot from a great distance (Look at the sniper nest. Been up there days. She should have scoped the area. Should. Have…), the child with the knife (Big enough to be a young adult. She should have thought that through. Should. Have…)
She wiped a gloved hand over her face, felt the fabric against her skin. No frostbite, not yet. But soon if she wasn’t careful.
She had to call this in to someone. And what would she say?
The truth. She’d learned that too, over there.
The truth was the only defense and the only explanation. No matter how ugly things got.
She stood, her knees cracking.
He—whoever he was—had tried to make a home here, and no one had even known he was around. The neighborhood was empty because everyone thought it dangerous. Her parents had warned her not to walk through it, as if they had no idea what she had seen in her short life. And then she realized/remembered/understood. They did have no idea.
No one had any idea.
Except the folks at the VA. Who told her that she had to give herself a chance. To step forward, do the right thing. And they had said earlier this afternoon, the right thing was to take care of herself.
Right now, though, in this moment, the right thing was to let someone know about him.
To bring him home—since he hadn’t been halfway homeless. He’d been all the way homeless.
She was nearly down the stairs before she remembered where she was, and when she was. She had a phone in her pocket. She didn’t have to keep radio silence.
She gave herself a rueful smile, tapped 911, and reported the body. Then she sat on the stairs and waited.
***
Three people in the ambulance, two cops in the squad, no sirens. They photographed the scene, removed the body, asked if she knew who he was.
She had to say no, but she asked them to keep her informed.
“If he doesn’t have people,” she said. “I’ll pay for him, make sure he’s buried with honors. Tell whoever needs to know.”
She didn’t have a business card, so she made sure the cops took her information, and one of the ambulance drivers did too.
Only as an afterthought did one of the cops ask her why she had been here.
She was about to launch into the open-door explanation, the curious-about-this-place-since-childhood story, when the words caught in her throat.
“Just a feeling,” she said. “I just had a feeling.”
She wasn’t sure that was right, but she wasn’t sure it was wrong either. She had had a feeling.
If she’d had a premonition, she would’ve liked to think that she would have arrived before he froze to death.
But she had proven to herself time and time again in the desert that she had no premonitions, that she never saw the future, that she barely saw the warning signs.
And this was a big warning sign. Alone, in the dark, freezing, with enough respect not to light a fire for fear of destroying part of an already-hurting 110-year-old house.
Respect and loneliness. A man with a past and no future.
A man no one remembered or knew.
A man no one had even seen.
The cops left last, apparently not caring that she was inside a house she didn’t own.
No one cared about this place.
Except her.
She loved it. The man who died had cared about it too—enough to gamble his life on saving it.
She turned around, looked at the gloom, the dust motes floating in the twilight air.
She had no idea what a house like this needed. She didn’t know how to repair plaster or how to fix the missing stones out front. She’d never pounded a board into a porch or painted a wall above beautiful wood.
But she had shoveled snow for her entire life. She could start there.
And she had savings too. A lot of it, thanks to her father and his no-rent policy.
No one liked this neighborhood. It wasn’t dying. It had died a long time ago, and no one had cared.
But this house was still alive, barely clinging to life. With no future, only a past.
Unless someone helped it.
She was shaking—not from cold, but from excitement.
She needed a shovel. She needed some plywood. She needed to go to the city and make some promises that she intended to keep.
She would learn how to fix the house, no matter how long it took. She would promise to live here afterward—like that little old lady from her childhood.
Caitlin would learn how a single person could survive in a house this big.
After she glued it back together.
Repairing the damage and becoming presentable, slowly, by focusing on each tiny section.
Like the snow in the foyer. The chill in the air.
A little love and elbow grease might not make the house a showplace again, but they would ease the house back to life.
Ease her back to life.
One missing piece at a time.
___________________________________________
“Rehab” is available for one week on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores, as well as here.
Rehab
Copyright © 2020 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and layout copyright © 2020 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © sorokopud/Depositphotos
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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