Being a sugar baby isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. After a failed art career and a failed relationship, Baby has lost her way. She’s adrift in the post-Y2K, pre-Facebook world and stuck in her Florida hometown, selling stolen goods online and working as a sugar baby. Even though she’s hustling hard, there’s still never enough money to pay the bills, and her long-suffering roommate is ready to put her out on the streets. One night after a bad date with her sugar daddy, Baby is assaulted by a mysterious woman in a parking lot. The attack leaves her disoriented and exhausted, so Baby takes to her bed to lie there and rot, like, for real. With every passing day, Baby’s looks and health decline in strange and horrific ways. Soon, it becomes apparent that the strange woman who assaulted her had something to do with her declining state. Baby needs to find her attacker, reclaim her life and her beauty, and get her shit together once and for all. But at what cost?
Bed Rot Baby is a pink horror meditation of self-discovery through self-destruction, and the real cost of self-image, self-esteem, and beauty.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Bed Rot Baby is a strange, stylish little gem, eerie, satirical, and surprisingly tender. Wendy Dalrymple offers a fresh and unsettling take on themes of immortality and beauty, exploring what happens when the desire to stay young and untouched by time turns obsessive.
Rather than leaning on the usual tropes, Dalrymple injects the story with biting social commentary and dark humor. The idea of eternal youth is twisted into something claustrophobic, even grotesque, and the result is a story that feels both modern and mythic. It’s a clever reflection on sugar baby culture, the commodification of beauty, and the way society rewards women for staying small, still, and pretty forever.
The writing is sharp and compact, the tone shifting between dreamy and disturbing in all the right ways. It’s not a long read, but it lingers.
If you’re into offbeat horror with something to say, especially about the cost of being “perfect” forever Bed Rot Baby is well worth your time.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Quill & Crow Publishing House for a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
So standing here at the head of the conference table, expect-ant eyes of Very Important People all on her, was pretty much torture.
But Julia was the CEO of Starlight Cosmetics, this company was her baby, these VIPs the executives she hired to help grow the business. And the news she had to share with them was monumental.
She scanned her memory for the advice from her executive coach for this kind of situation. The only thing she could remember was, contrary to everything she’d ever been told before in her life, never try to picture your audience naked. It would make the nerves even worse.
And, of course, now that’s all Julia could think of.
She closed her eyes for a moment to clear her mind of all the unfortunate images fighting to run through her head.
What was that one thing her coach told her?
Squeeze your butt cheeks to hold the plank. Wait, no, that was her abs coach.
If the recipe calls for garlic, double it. Wrong again. That was her cooking coach.
Oh, screw it. What was the use of having all these people to help Julia better herself when she couldn’t call upon the advice when needed?
She cleared her throat and decided to wing it.
“I know you’re all busy, so I’ll make this quick. Look, it’s not how I wanted to do this . . .”
Her dream, rather, was to one day point at each of them and tell them an exorbitant dollar amount for a bonus. Enough money for them to buy new homes in the hills or on the beach, whichever they preferred.
“Wait—are you firing us?” someone cried out from the other end of the table.
Julia’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “What? No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Always start with something personal and positive to get people excited about what you’re going to say. Oh yeah, that’s the brilliant advice her coach had mentioned.
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so ominous.” Julia quickly backtracked. “It’s just that, well, at the risk of get-ting too squishy in a work meeting, I really wanted to thank you all for taking a chance on me way back when all of this was just an idea in my head.”
Julia swallowed the emotion building in her throat as she looked around at the team she’d put together to lead this company. They were the ones who took her idea to merge the best in the Korean skincare market with the high demands of the US consumer and built what was now one of the fastest- growing organic, clean K- beauty brands in America.
“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate your hard work and loyalty. I don’t know that any of us anticipated this kind of success. But honestly, none of it would have happened without each and every one of you and your contribution. And now, I have some really great news. As you know, Starlight’s Lotus Bamboo Essence was selected for Allure’s Best of Beauty awards. Which was a dream come true for us. But it doesn’t end there.”
Julia inserted the dramatic pause her public speaking coach had encouraged her to use. The looks of anticipation around the room fueled her excitement.
“I’m thrilled to share that the same Lotus Bamboo Essence has also been selected as one of this year’s Oprah’s Favorite Things!”
There was a silent pause of shock, followed by an eruption of applause and cheers, high fives, and hugs shared around the table.
“We’ll need to reforecast sales projections. We’re gonna blow up with the exposure . . .”
“We’re gonna have to update a comms plan . . .”
“We have to think of how we add this to the packaging design . . .”
“We need to make sure the supply chain can handle the increased distribution . . .”
“Oprah still has major influence on Gen X consumer spending. It’s a big win for a product . . .”
Yup, that was her team . . . no- nonsense, capable, loyal, honest . . . and the hardest- working, most talented people in the industry. And they were all business, just like her.
Her chest swelled as she watched them leave to get back to work, patting each other on the back as they walked out, taking the noise with them.
Julia started this company at only twenty- six years old. She’d disappointed her parents by changing her major from pre- med to business administration. She lived off ramen and PB&J sandwiches for a good year just to scrape by as she worked tirelessly to research the hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms. And she stomached the start- up community’s boys’ club as she tried to secure funding for the company.
And four short years later, they were on the verge of something huge. Hard work and dedication had brought them to this level of success. So yeah, she was proud of them, proud of herself. And at only thirty, she was finally in a position financially to take care of her family without worry.
When the last person left her office, Julia turned to look out the windows, the hustle and bustle of Santa Monica ten floors below. She took a deep breath.
“That’s right, motherfuckers,” she screamed, while pumping her fist. She shook her hips back and forth, adding in some aggressive hair throws and, why the heck not, followed it with a body roll. “Oh yeah, uh- huh . . .”
“Oh dear, that’s something I’m not likely going to forget seeing.”
Record scratch.
Julia halted her celebratory dance and quickly patted down her hair, trying to tuck her I- knew- I’d- regret-these bangs behind her ear as her assistant, Annette, entered the office.
“Unlike what your schedule says on paper, you’ve only actually attended that hot yoga class once. Should you really be try-ing to move your body like that?” Annette asked. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“You’re fired.”
Annette passed her the cup of black coffee in the Morning Person mug that she knew was a lie, along with a multivitamin and a probiotic. Breakfast of champions.
“Just remember that I know where the bodies are hidden. Oh, and I have those pictures of you from that one holiday party . . .”
“Okay, fine, you can stay,” Julia conceded.
“Is it a good time to ask for a raise?”
Julia tried to shoot Annette a glare but couldn’t keep back the smile. It was a secret to no one that Annette was invaluable to the Starlight team, and most days she was the one bossing Julia around. Julia shook her head and took a seat at her desk. “Can you forward the O magazine email to the team so they know all the details?”
“You betcha,” Annette said. “Have you told your folks yet?”
“No, not yet. I don’t think they’d even understand what a big deal this is.”
“Make sure to tell them.” Annette wasn’t only her assistant, she was also her work- mother as well. “Oh, and here is the updated short list of investors we might want to approach for global expansion. One bad meeting doesn’t have to halt progress.”
One bad meeting was an understatement. The last time Julia had met with an investment firm for an informational meeting, they kept asking about her significant other, driving home that they were a family- run business built on traditional values. They looked at her as young and inexperienced not because of her age— she knew plenty of male CEOs who were thirty— but because she wasn’t married with children. In their eyes, Julia wasn’t reliable because she wasn’t settled . . . settled down, that is.
Her accomplishments, alone, weren’t enough.
I’ll show them, she thought to herself as she gritted her teeth. Julia grabbed the list from Annette with a little bit more force than necessary and nodded. “Thanks.”
“Hey.” Annette softened her voice like she so rarely ever did. The one word in that tone made Julia surprisingly emotional. “It’s a good day, boss lady. You should be proud.” She patted Julia on the shoulder before walking back to her desk just outside Julia’s office.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
Fallon is a fixer. From planning prom to organizing her college applications, she’s got it all figured out…except for when her younger sister comes to her with very basic questions about sex. Shocked that she knows so little—and her fellow classmates even less—Fallon decides some practical education is in order. And Fallon isn’t above practicing a little civil disobedience by creating a secret underground off-campus group.
Shelby is a fighter. Having her nose broken is nothing new in her semiprofessional career…but this time it’s her boyfriend who threw the punch. Now her phone is blowing up with texts from a new guy who tells her she’s perfect, she’s special, she’s everything he’s ever wanted…except for a few small details. Shelby’s happy to adjust for him, because isn’t that what a healthy relationship is about?
Jobie is a failure. She doesn’t have enough followers and her posts never go viral, no matter how hard she crushes challenges and applies exactly the right filter. But a friendly DM from a good girl just like her points her in the direction of a whole new audience of admirers. Guys who just want to talk. Guys who give her the attention she’s always wanted.
The lives of all three girls intersect in Fallon’s secret class, rumors of which have parents up in arms. Fallon needs to keep herself anonymous, Shelby needs to keep her new boyfriend happy, and Jobie needs to keep her followers…who keep asking for more. Each girl finds herself trapped in an inescapable situation—that will leave one of them dead.
GRADE: B-
REVIEW:
Mindy McGinnis has been an auto-buy author for me for years — I absolutely love her writing and the bold stories she tells. That said, How Girls Are Made didn’t hook me the way her previous books have.
Set against the backdrop of a society that still struggles with how it defines and disciplines girlhood, the plot is timely and unflinching. McGinnis explores themes of bodily autonomy, trauma, identity, and power, all through the lens of a young girl navigating a system that often fails those who need the most protection. As always, her writing pulls no punches. It’s raw, honest, and at times difficult to read, but that’s exactly what makes it so impactful.
The themes are incredibly timely and important, and McGinnis never shies away from tough topics. But the pacing felt slow for much of the book, and it didn’t really hit its stride until about 90% in. That final stretch is powerful, though, and it’s what ultimately makes me recommend this one, especially for teen readers who can benefit from the message.
The characters are complex and real, whose voices ring with authenticity and strength even in their most vulnerable moments. McGinnis never talks down to her readers; instead, she challenges them to confront harsh truths with empathy and open eyes.
In an era where conversations about gender, control, and justice are more urgent than ever, How Girls Are Made couldn’t be more timely. It’s not an easy read, but it’s an important one.
Not my favorite from her, but still worth the read. Highly recommended for readers who appreciate bold storytelling with something to say.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Harper Collins for a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
C-L-I-N-T. That single short, sharp syllable has stood as an emblem of American manhood and morality and sheer bloody-minded will, on-screen and off-screen, for more than sixty years. Whether he’s facing down bad guys on a Western street (Old West or new, no matter), staring through the lens of a camera, or accepting one of his movies’ thirteen Oscars (including two for Best Picture), he is as blunt, curt, and solid as his name, a star of the old-school stripe and one of the most accomplished directors of his time, a man of rock and iron and brute force: Clint.
To read the story of Clint Eastwood is to understand nearly a century of American culture. No Hollywood figure has so completely and complexly stood inside the changing climates of post–World War II America. At age ninety-five, he has lived a tumultuous century and embodied much of his time and many of its contradictions.
We picture Clint squinting through cigarillo smoke in A Fistful of Dollars or The Good, the Bad and the Ugly; imposing rough justice at the point of a .44 Magnum in Dirty Harry; sowing vengeance in The Outlaw Josey Wales or Pale Rider or Unforgiven; grudgingly training a woman boxer in Million Dollar Baby; and standing up for his neighbors despite his racism in Gran Torino. Or we feel him present, powerfully, behind the camera, creating complex tales of violence, morality, and humanity, such as Mystic River, Letters from Iwo Jima, and American Sniper. But his roles and his films, however well cast and convincing, are two-dimensional in comparison to his whole life.
As Shawn Levy reveals in this masterful biography—the most complete portrait yet of Eastwood—the reality is richer, knottier, and more absorbing. Clint: The Man and the Movies is a saga of cunning, determination, and conquest, a story about a man ascending to the Hollywood pantheon while keeping one foot firmly planted outside its door.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Yes, this book is long — but when you’re covering the life of Clint Eastwood, a towering figure in Hollywood for over half a century, how could it not be?
I’ve always admired Eastwood’s work, both in front of and behind the camera, but I knew very little about the man himself. Clint pulls back the curtain on his personal life, revealing a complex and often controversial figure. Levy doesn’t shy away from Eastwood’s flaws, including his well-documented struggles with fidelity and the ruthless way he sometimes handled personal and professional relationships. (Just ask Sondra Locke.)
What really stood out to me, though, was the story of how Eastwood built his career. He wasn’t always taken seriously as an actor, in fact, many doubted his talent early on. But through a mix of grit, luck, and relentless ambition, he carved out a legendary place in film history. That journey is fascinating to follow.
If you’re a fan of Clint Eastwood or just love Hollywood history, this book is absolutely worth your time. Shawn Levy does a fantastic job digging deep and telling the full story, warts and all.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & HarperAudio for the audiobook copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
You should be writing.hexing people who tell you that you should be writing.
—NOTE ON THE BLACKBOARD IN THE MAGE STUDENT COPY ROOM, EDITED IN ANOTHER HAND
THE CLASSROOM DOOR SHIMMERED, AND I SCOWLED AT IT. Twenty minutes ago, the door had been normal. Mundane, even. A steel slab with a hydraulic hinge that had a nasty habit of seeming to swing slowly shut before slamming all at once. It opened onto a fluorescent-lit room overstuffed with motley desks and accessorized with a decrepit whiteboard. Inside, I’d drawn my containment circle using a piece of chalk pilfered from the lecture hall down the way and cast my working. Then, I’d stepped out for a coffee.
Now, two minutes late to my own class, I pressed my palm to the door and felt a frizzle of static ghost its way up my arm and into my hair. My bangs went blowsy. I swatted them out of my eyes and shook the sting from my hand.
So much for making a professional first impression.
Of all the ill-starred winter terms I’d experienced in this program, this one was already well on its way to being the worst, and it was only day one. If I was being fair, it wasn’t the door’s fault. Someone else teaching in this room had thrown up a ward to penalize late students. I was going to have to take it down, or spend the next ten weeks fighting with it. But I wasn’t in the mood to be fair. Not with an 8 a.m. class to teach and a meeting with my advisor immediately after.
Sighing, I levered the door handle down and pushed through the field of prickling magic. Thirty-five
heads—according to my course roster—swiveled in my direction as I stalked toward the front of the room. I pretended not to notice them, smoothing my bangs with my fingertips in an effort to compose myself.
“Hey! The professor’s going to be here any minute, dude. Stop messing around,” someone called out.
As a young, femme, and heavily tattooed instructor who habitually dressed in faded jeans and the nicest clean top I could find in the laundry basket—today’s wasn’t wrinkled . . . much—I was used to that reaction. Instead of replying, I set my satchel on the long table that served as the room’s makeshift lectern and fished out a dry-erase marker.
Concerned whispers soughed through the room. I ignored them, scrawling information on the board:
Spell Composition I
Under that, I added:
Ms. Dorothe Bartleby (she/her)
As I wrote, the whispers quieted until the only sounds were the squeaking of my marker and the high-pitched flickering of the fluorescent lights.
When both my nerves and the room were well and truly calm, I turned back around with a flourishing bow that triggered the working I’d cast earlier.
Students gasped and giggled as syllabi winked into existence above each occupied desk and slowly fluttered into place. They wouldn’t be as impressed if they knew my housemate, Cy, had given me his spell for the working just a couple days earlier. Still, their delighted bafflement was almost enough to make me smile, despite the morning’s irritations.
“My name is Dorothe Bartleby, but you can call me Ms. B.”
I paused to gesture at the board. “I teach Spell Composition I. If you’re here for another class, this is your cue to exit.”
A couple of students scurried out of the room as inconspicuously as possible. Which of course meant that the sound of their packing, bags zipping, and sneakered tiptoeing on the waxed vinyl flooring was so loud it was pointless to continue until the capricious classroom door swung shut behind them.
The remaining thirty-three or so students watched me warily. Smiling, I reached for my heavily annotated copy of the syllabus.
“This course is part of a learning community with Ms. Darya
Watkins’s Herbalism 101. The work you do in Spell Composition I will complement your work in that class. By the end of the term, you will have drafted and revised two academic-quality spells.”
The corresponding groan came from nowhere and everywhere at once, an overwhelming expression of sentiment that shuddered me back into freshman year. My shoulders tensed with the sense-memory of panicked drafting, late-night grappling with the arcane rules of the Mage Language Coven’s style guide, the growing certainty I’d never be a real practitioner because I couldn’t even format my grimoire citations correctly on the battered electric typewriter I used for my assignments.
I took a breath and dropped my shoulders, forcing myself to focus on the students in front of me. Someone had helped me, and I would help them. They might still hate the class at the end. Hec, most of them probably would. It was a gen-ed, designed for gatekeeping and consequently loathed by the student population. But they’d make it through. I’d see them through.
Quiet settled in as I regarded them.
Tangled auras, pained grimaces, sleep-crusted eyes . . . This group was so starkly different from last term’s Spell Composition I students that I couldn’t help a sudden rush of sympathy. There was something special about the off-cycle students, the unwieldy or unlucky or un . . .something few who’d fallen out of the campus’s natural rhythm. And it wasn’t just that I had recently become one of them.
Students who took this course in fall term, as admin recommended, tended to be bright eyed and happy-go-lucky, brimming with the magic of sun-dappled October days and pumpkin-flavored beverages. But it was January, skies glowering with rain clouds, and these students were in for a bumpier ride. They knew it. And they’d persist, despite it.
I looked at them and they looked back at me, wearily expectant.
“Most of my students come to class with a very specific preconceived notion,” I told them. “Maybe it’s self-imposed, or maybe it’s something you were told again and again until it stuck.”
I stalked back to the board and scrawled a giant number across it.
“According to our preclass survey, eighty-five percent of you self-identify as ‘bad spell writers.’ That’s bullshit.”
The class gasped and tittered.
“You’ve been hexed, or hexed yourselves, into believing one of the biggest lies in academia—that there’s only one kind of ‘good spell writing,’ or that only certain kinds of practitioners can be good spell writers. Bull. Shit.”
Fewer titters this time, because I’d gotten their attention. Hexing was a serious accusation—workings intended to cause harm violated the student code—and right about now they’d be trying to sort out whether I meant it literally or metaphorically. The thing was, it didn’t matter whether someone had literally hexed them to think of themselves as bad spell writers. The only thing that signified was that 85 percent of them did. It was part of the story they’d learned to tell about themselves. And reality reshapes itself around stories.
“Does anyone have a hunch about why I’d say that?”
Silence. Stillness. As though I was a predator who could only hunt when prey was in motion or making sound. I folded my arms and waited, even though the approximately seven seconds that went by felt like an eternity.
Finally, a hand climbed skyward.
“Yes? You in the striped shirt. What’s your name?”
“Alse. Um, Alse Hathorne.”
“Hi, Alse. Any thoughts?”
“Well . . .” Alse fidgeted with their glasses and scrunched their face, as if uncertain whether their thoughts were worth sharing. “It’s okay to speculate. Take a wild guess.”
Alse huffed. “Okay, thanks. It’s just . . . When you said spell writing isn’t just one thing, it made me wonder what actually counts. Like, am I writing when I’m flipping through old grimoires for research? Does daydreaming about what I want my spell to do count?”
Their tone was half-sincere, half-sarcastic, but I could work with that. I smiled, waiting to see if any of their classmates had a response before sharing mine.
A blonde in a pink tie-dye T-shirt waved, excited.
“Um, yeah, Reed here. Like, are we writing when we select spell ingredients?”
More hands flew up, and for a little while I forgot it was an ill-starred term. I lost myself in discussion.
BLEAK REALITY CROWDED BACK IN AS MY STUDENTS FILED OUT OF THE classroom. In a matter of minutes, my advisor would be giving me the come-to-Hecate talk I’d been dreading since last term. Her email yesterday hadn’t said that, but I could read between the lines of her vague Let’s chat. Can you stop by my office tomorrow?
A knot formed in my stomach as I repacked my satchel.
Every mage student got two attempts—and only two—to pass the Branch and Field exam, our program’s version of the qualifying exam that marked the transition from coursework to dissertation work. I’d failed my first attempt, and this term I’d get one last chance to convince my committee that I had what it took to be a mage.
Except, I wasn’t certain I believed it anymore. I had magic, sure. I was one of the lucky few born with the ability to see past consensus reality to other possibilities. But I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not in the way my housemates did. They were stars in their respective branches, innovating and winning awards. I was squarely middle-of-the-pack among my fellow Thaumaturgy students. A mediocre practitioner in a branch that I’d heard laughingly referred to as the underwater basket weaving of Magic more times than I could count. It wasn’t true. Thaumaturgy was so much more than a catchall for the bits and bobs of magical scholarship that weren’t interesting or important enough to make it into the curricula of Necromancy or Alchemy or even Divination. But my branch’s undeserved reputation didn’t help my confidence.
And now Professor Husik wanted to chat. She was going to tell me I didn’t get a second attempt, after all. That my first try had been so egregiously bad the committee wanted me to pack my things and go. I was so engrossed in the thought that it took me a minute to notice the student who’d stopped in front of my desk, smiling nervously. I blinked a few times, forcing myself to refocus.
“Sorry—”I dredged my memory for the student’s name “—Alse. Do you have a question?”
Alse rummaged in their bag. “Not a question, really, just, uh—”
They handed me a piece of paper and backed away quickly, as if the slightly crumpled page was actually a detonation charm. A ghost of static tickled up my arm as I skimmed the photocopied text, achingly aware that I was going to have to sprint to my advisor’s office to make it on time.
It was an accommodation letter. The requests were common ones: time and a half on exams, an extra week to compose spells, use of an object-based sensory working to manage attention and focus.
I looked up. Alse had used the time to shrink into themself.
“Thank you.” If only I could will away their nerves with my smile. “I know these letters don’t always give me a full picture of how I can best support you. I’d love to chat about that. Can you make it to my office hours today?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“My last professor nearly exploded when I gave her the letter.”
I couldn’t help but wince. Some faculty took the letters as a personal affront, rather than expressions of students’ desire to be able to actually do the work.
“Is everything okay?”
Alse shrugged. “Sure.” Their tone wasn’t convincing, but every nerve in my body was shouting at me to get moving.
“Okay, good. The directions to my office are in the syllabus. Now, I apologize, but I have to run to another meeting.”
I was halfway down the hall and already out of breath by the time that traitorous classroom door slammed behind me. When it slammed again, signaling Alse’s departure, I’d rounded the corner and hauled open the stairwell door.
I swore under my breath as I climbed. Most elevators on campus were too old and slow to be relied on in a rush. But teleportation wasn’t an option—not even for disabled students.
A group of them had lobbied administration for a change to the policy last year. Their requests were met with a volley of excuses. Teleportation was banned in the student code of conduct due to its disruptive nature and disrespect to the hallowed halls and grounds of this fine institution. It was federally restricted. Over and above all that, though, it was expensive.
I shoved the thought aside, taking the stairs two at a time. I had until the last full moon of term to pass my exam and convince my committee, and myself, that I deserved to be here. That I was ready to advance to mage candidacy, write my dissertation, and join the ranks of full mages out in the world.
I didn’t have time to worry about anyone else’s problems. Even without my advisor’s cryptic summons, I had more than enough of my own.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
A group of friends must confront the ancient dragon they summoned—and the darkness it awakens in themselves.
PLOT SUMMARY:
Arthur Oakes is a reader, a dreamer, and a student at Rackham College, Maine, renowned for its frosty winters, exceptional library, and beautiful buildings. But his idyll—and burgeoning romance with Gwen Underfoot—is shattered when a local drug dealer and her partner corner him into one of the worst crimes he can imagine: stealing rare books from the college library.
Trapped and desperate, Arthur turns to his closest friends for comfort and help. Together they dream up a wild, fantastical scheme to free Arthur from the cruel trap in which he finds himself. Wealthy, irrepressible Colin Wren suggests using the unnerving Crane journal (bound in the skin of its author) to summon a dragon to do their bidding. The others—brave, beautiful Alison Shiner; the battling twins Donna and Donovan McBride; and brainy, bold Gwen—don’t hesitate to join Colin in an effort to smash reality and bring a creature of the impossible into our world.
But there’s nothing simple about dealing with dragons, and their pact to save Arthur becomes a terrifying bargain in which the six must choose a new sacrifice for King Sorrow every year—or become his next meal.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I’ve loved all of Joe Hill’s previous books, and King Sorrow was no exception. Part fantasy and part horror, the story follows a group of college students who accidentally summon a dragon using an ancient text. At first, they use the dragon to eliminate someone who was tormenting the protagonist, Arthur. But things quickly spiral out of control when they realize the dragon—known as King Sorrow—demands a yearly sacrifice to remain satisfied. As the pressure mounts, the group of friends begins to fracture. How do you get rid of an ancient dragon once it’s been unleashed?
Joe Hill’s King Sorrow is a gripping, imaginative tale that blends horror, fantasy, and emotional depth with signature Hill flair. At its core, this novel isn’t just about an ancient, malevolent dragon awakening from centuries of slumber—it’s about the enduring strength of friendship in the face of overwhelming darkness.
Hill masterfully crafts a world where sorrow itself becomes a living force, embodied in a terrifying, ancient dragon that feeds on despair. But it’s the unlikely bond between the central characters—a band of flawed but fiercely loyal friends—that gives the story its beating heart. Their journey to confront the beast becomes as much a fight against personal demons as it is against the fire-breathing horror that threatens to devour everything.
King Sorrow explores how connection and loyalty can be a light in the darkest places. The characters don’t just try to slay the dragon; they struggle to carry one another through grief, guilt, and fear. It’s this emotional weight, balanced with Hill’s tight pacing and chilling prose, that makes the book unforgettable.
A story of terror, yes—but also a story of hope, sacrifice, and the power of standing together.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & William Murrow for a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
In it, Matilda discovers a father she’s never met. Kingsley Cello is a visionary, a reclusive artist. And when he asks her to spend the summer at his seaside home, Hidden Beach, Matilda expects to find a part of herself she’s never fully understood.
Instead, she finds Meer, her long-lost, openhearted brother; Brock, a former child star battling demons; and brooding, wild Tatum, who just wants her to leave their crumbling sanctuary.
With Kingsley nowhere to be seen, Matilda must delve into the twisted heart of Hidden Beach to uncover the answers she’s desperately craving. But secrets run thicker than blood, and blood runs like seawater.
And everyone here is lying.
GRADE: A-
REVIEW:
I adored E. Lockhart’s We Were Liars and Family of Liars, so I dove into We Fell Apart with high expectations. And while the mystery definitely kept me intrigued, the overall experience didn’t quite hit the same highs—mostly because I just couldn’t connect with the main character, Matilda.
The premise is promising: Matilda leaves sunny California to spend part of her summer vacation at a mysterious castle in Hidden Beach, finally hoping to meet her elusive painter father, Kingsley. But when she arrives? No Kingsley. Just a crumbling castle full of secrets.
While the setup had me curious, Matilda as a protagonist fell flat for me. Her sudden romance with one of the boys felt way too rushed and kind of came out of nowhere. That said, I did really enjoy her dynamic with her half-brother, Meer—he’s a total scene-stealer, and I found myself looking forward to every moment he was on the page.
One of the coolest things about We Fell Apart is its unexpected connection to the Sinclair family from the previous books. I won’t spoil how, but it’s subtle, smart, and gives longtime fans something to chew on by the end.
If you’re already invested in the world of We Were Liars, this book is definitely worth the read. You can read it as a standalone (Lockhart gives you just enough context), but the experience is richer if you’ve read the previous books.
Not my favorite in the series, but still worth picking up for the atmospheric mystery and those trademark Lockhart twists.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Delacorte Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
The Netherlands, 1887. Lucy’s twin sister Sarah is unwell. She refuses to eat, mumbles nonsensically, and is increasingly obsessed with a centuries-old corpse recently discovered on her husband’s grand estate. The doctor has diagnosed her with temporary insanity caused by a fever of the brain. To protect her twin from a terrible fate in a lunatic asylum, Lucy must unravel the mystery surrounding her sister’s condition, but it’s clear her twin is hiding something. Then again, Lucy is harboring secrets of her own, too.
Then, the worst happens. Sarah’s behavior takes a turn for the strange. She becomes angry… and hungry.
Lucy soon comes to suspect that something is trying to possess her beloved sister. Or is it madness? As Sarah changes before her very eyes, Lucy must reckon with the dark, monstrous truth, or risk losing her forever.
GRADE: A+
REVIEW:
I really enjoyed Johanna Van Veen’s debut, My Darling Dreadful Thing, but Blood on Her Tongue? It completely blew me away. This is Gothic fiction at its finest—dark, moody, mysterious, and brimming with atmosphere.
The relationship between Lucy and Sarah was beautifully written, layered with tension, tenderness, and deep emotional stakes. And the mystery at the heart of the story? Absolutely gripping. (Two words: bog bodies!) While the book nods to Dracula—complete with direct quotes—it never feels like a retread. Van Veen has crafted something wholly original, both in plot and in the vivid characters she brings to life.
Compared to her debut, which occasionally lost momentum, this novel is a masterclass in pacing and storytelling. Every chapter pulled me deeper into its eerie, immersive world.
I listened to the audiobook, and it was phenomenal. The narrator brought the characters and the atmosphere to life so vividly, I felt like I was living inside the story. Highly recommend the audio version if you want an extra layer of immersion.
I won’t spoil the plot—this is one of those stories that’s best experienced blind—but be warned: it gets gory. There are scenes that will make you squirm, and yet, you’ll find yourself fiercely rooting for Lucy and Sarah through it all.
If you love Gothic novels filled with mystery, romance, and a healthy dose of the macabre, don’t walk—RUN to pick this one up. And if you can, grab the audiobook. It’s an experience.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Blackstone Publishing for the audiobook copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
Four years ago, an unthinkable disaster occurred. In what was later known as the Low-Probability Event, eight million people were killed in a single day, each of them dying in improbable, bizarre ways: strangled by balloon ropes, torn apart by exploding manhole covers, attacked by a chimpanzee wielding a typewriter. A day of freak accidents that proved anything is possible, no matter the odds. Luck is real now, and it’s not always good.
Vera, a former statistics and probability professor, lost everything that day, and she still struggles to make sense of the unbelievable catastrophe. To her, the LPE proved that the God of Order is dead and nothing matters anymore.
When Special Agent Layne shows up on Vera’s doorstep, she learns he’s investigating a suspiciously—and statistically impossibly—lucky casino. He needs her help to prove the casino’s success is connected to the deaths of millions, and it’s Vera’s last chance to make sense of a world that doesn’t.
Because what’s happening in Vegas isn’t staying there, and she’s the only thing that stands between the world and another deadly improbability.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
This book was bonkers—in the best way possible. One of the things I absolutely love about Chuck Tingle’s writing is how the horror hits fast and out of nowhere. You’re not easing into dread; you’re slammed into it headfirst, just like the characters. It’s chaotic, terrifying, and ridiculously fun.
The story follows Vera, a woman who survived a catastrophic disaster that wiped out 8 million people in a single day—including her own mother. She’s been living as a recluse for the past four years, until Agent Layne knocks on her door with a wild proposition: help him investigate a suspiciously lucky casino that might be tied to the tragedy that changed her life.
Mara Wilson nails the narration. She brings so much emotion and complexity to Vera, making the character feel fully alive—even as the world around her spirals into total madness.
This book is like Final Destination meets The X-Files, with a heavy dose of surreal, queer chaos. It’s gory, strange, and bursting with Tingle’s signature imagination. And in true Chuck Tingle fashion, amidst all the horror and sci-fi mayhem, there’s a powerful, affirming message: Bisexuals exist. Loudly, proudly, and yes—right in the middle of a conspiracy-laced nightmare.
If you love horror that’s fast-paced, weird, and unapologetically queer, this one’s a must-read. Highly recommend.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Macmillan Audio for the audiobook copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
He pretended to be human for seven years. Until he couldn’t.
PLOT SUMMARY:
He’s a traveling salesman named Paul Cattaneo, except he isn’t. He’s a Mirror Person–a hyper-empathetic eldritch abomination. He found the human Paul Cattaneo’s mangled corpse seven years ago and decided to mimic it. It’s just what Mirror People do. Mimic. Absorb. Control.
But breeding season for Mirror People comes around every seven years, inducing a sociopathic state… and Paul’s time is up. Unable to avoid the reality of what he truly is, Paul has a mental breakdown, goes on a cross-country road trip…and runs afoul of something far, far more inhuman and dangerous than himself.
GRADE: B+
REVIEW:
I’ll start by saying this is the first book I’ve read by this author—and I’m not usually drawn to cosmic horror. But the premise was just too compelling to pass up, and I’m so glad I gave it a shot.
The story follows Paul, who has lived for seven years as a human… until his dormant parasite instincts awaken. Suddenly, he’s forced to choose between embracing his true nature or continuing to pretend to be something he’s not. It’s a fascinating, unsettling concept—what does identity mean when your biology tells you you’re something else entirely?
There’s plenty of horror and gore for fans of the genre (which I definitely am), and the writing is sharp and confident. I won’t spoil the plot—this is a short novella, and I really think it’s best experienced with as little context as possible. Going in blind made the experience all the more intense and unpredictable.
After this, I’ll absolutely be checking out Huff’s earlier work and anything she releases next. If you’re into cosmic horror with a sci-fi twist, this is one to put on your list.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & the publisher for a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
The Inkblotters 