“We’re each dealt our own unique affliction, Alice. Ours is death. Yours? Yours is life.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
Our Own Unique Affliction is the story of Alice Ann, a dejected immortal who longs for her life in the sun. Navigating guilt, loss, family, meaning, murder, and all that comes with the curse of living forever. An existential bleak, quiet until it’s not, hallucination on duality, rife with fangs, empathy, blood, and grief.
GRADE: A-
REVIEW:
Full disclosure, vampires are my favourite supernatural creature, but since they are my favourite, I usually don’t watch or read many books or movies that feature them because I am personally picky when it comes to vampires. My biggest gripe with most vampire books is the author leans too much on making them romantic heroes that they tend to forget or downplay the monstrous aspects that make these creatures absolutely terrifying. Alice Ann is no such vampire. Yes, she holds some smidgen of humanity but she’s also a brutal monster – and it’s a perfect balance. Alice Ann yearns for a life under the sun – and her memories of her family when she was human are viscerally moving and sad – especially when she sees immortality as a curse. I wasn’t too drawn to the human that essentially drove her and her sister around in a truck everywhere (I’m always iffy about humans that work for vampires or vampires relying on humans – it always seems like an odd relationship that will end up derailing at some point – and in the case of this novella it did just that). Usually, book endings are something that I don’t always like because most are lackluster even when the story has been amazing – however, Moses lands the perfect ending for this book – and it couldn’t have been better.
Read this if you like vampires, philosophical musings about mortality, and grief horror.
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!
I’m drawn to him because of this lingering ferocity I see in men- the possibility of violence.
PLOT SUMMARY:
At a meatpacking facility in the Missouri Ozarks, Dee-Dee and her co-workers kill and butcher 40,000 chickens in a single shift. The work is repetitive and brutal, with each stab and cut a punishment to her hands and joints, but Dee-Dee’s more concerned with what is happening inside her body. After a series of devastating miscarriages, Dee-Dee has found herself pregnant, and she is determined to carry this child to term.
Dee-Dee fled the Pentecostal church years ago, but judgment follows her in the form of regular calls from her mother, whose raspy voice urges Dee-Dee to quit living in sin and marry her boyfriend Daddy, an underemployed ex-con with an insect fetish. With a child on the way, at long last Dee-Dee can bask in her mother’s and boyfriend’s newfound parturient attention. She will matter. She will be loved. She will be complete.
When her charismatic friend Sloane reappears after a twenty-year absence, feeding her insecurities and awakening suppressed desires, Dee-Dee fears she will go back to living in the shadows. Neither the ultimate indignity of yet another miscarriage nor Sloane’s own pregnancy deters her: she must prepare for the baby’s arrival.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
If this book were a series, it’d be “bingeable.” Once you begin reading about Dee-Dee and her insect-obsessed boyfriend, Daddy, you can’t stop. The prose is raw and intimate in ways that will hit you emotionally at the core. Full disclosure, I have a phobia when it comes to insects, so the description of insects being placed on body parts was absolutely terrifying for me. But Nash also had me feeling sorry for these same insects later on in the novel, so that goes to show her deftness in being able to conjure pity even for creatures that I’d rather not have anywhere near me.
Dee-Dee becomes fixated with wanting to be pregnant, and this fixation leads her to tell her partner, Daddy that she’s indeed pregnant, despite her not actually being it. Her life begins to derail once her high school friend and fellow member of a church they both went to begins to live upstairs from her. Dee-Dee is convinced that Sloane wants to steal Daddy from her and that she’s trying to conspire against her. The book flashes between the present and the past, and in both places you can’t help but to feel sorry for Dee-Dee, especially in her present where she’s physically and emotionally exhausted by an occupation and relationship that suck so much out of her, without really feeling gratified by either.
Dee-Dee is a sympathetic character, and you can’t help but to root for her, despite her misgivings and the fact that the reader can sense that there’s a tragedy afoot and you’re sitting on pins and needles waiting to see just how much more terrible her life can really get.
I know this is categorized as horror by some people, but I wouldn’t necessarily say that it’s horror in the way that people define horror – rather it’s horrific in its realness and that can be much scarier than anything supernatural ever could. I recommend this book if you enjoy dark lit, twisted relationships/friendship, and true crime.
*Thank you so much to the author 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 fluorescent lights blinked on in a domino effect, one after the other, a faint buzzing sound filling the room as I stood squinting in the unnatural light.
I inhaled, taking in my small slice of heaven within the storied walls of the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. The long room with its high ceiling, soothing taupe walls, and wood floors—weathered in spots from years of conservators standing and pacing as they labored over the works of great minds—brought a sense of peace as soon as I stepped inside.
The museum had been my happy place since I was a little girl, when my mother would walk with me from our baby blue–painted row house on Capitol Hill, her slender fingers wrapped around my pudgy ones. We’d wander past sprawling parks, melancholy monuments documenting history, to the austere but magical facade housing wonders my six-year-old eyes could barely comprehend. By the age of eight I knew all the regular exhibits like the back of my hand, and waited anxiously for the monthly newsletter that arrived in our mailbox, telling us what traveling exhibits we could expect next. It was one such exhibit, a gallery of gowns worn by British royalty, that had burrowed itself inside me in such a way that a dream was born.
“I’m going to work here one day,” I’d told my mother, pushing back a strand of dirty-blond hair as I stared up at a jewel-colored gown once worn by Queen Elizabeth the Second.
I was twelve.
I wanted to exist within these walls. It was my church, and I believed in its teachings wholeheartedly. I had drunk the water. Read the great books. And prayed to the gods of knowledge and creativity. I wanted to be part of whatever it took to bring history to life for others. And for the past nine years…that’s exactly what I’d done.
I stared at the scene sprawled out before me.
“Sanctuary,” I whispered, tucking a blond-highlighted strand of hair behind my ear.
Gleaming table after gleaming table sat covered in silk, satin, lace, and velvet. Gowns and dresses and blouses previously only seen on movie screens and in photographs now lay delicately in wait of tending to, their sparkle and sinew in contrast to the stark lights and tepid surroundings. Mannequins, my constant companions, stood at the ready, waiting for their moment.
Thread in every color imaginable, like a rainbow of rotund spool soldiers on a rolling rack, waited to be chosen. Needles in pincushions, strips of bias tape, shimmering appliqués, ribbons, seam rippers, clear drawers filled with buttons and clasps and snaps, and boxes upon boxes of straight pins, their colorful heads a happy bouquet of tiny plastic globes, were scattered across every surface, peeking from where they’d fallen to the f loor, rolled beneath furniture, and stuck—I bent to pull a pink-headed pin from the rug beneath my feet—in a variety of inconvenient places.
The door clicked open behind me and I smiled.
“Good morning, Sylvia,” a familiar voice said.
“Morning, Lu,” I said to the one member of my team who, like me, couldn’t wait to get to work.
Every day, my friend and fellow fashion-obsessed cohort, Lu Huang, and I arrived within minutes of one another, and a full half hour before anyone else. Working as conservators for the museum was a coveted get for us. A dream job that every morning caused us to rush from our respective homes, grabbing an insufficient breakfast on our way out the door, and wondering hours later why we were so hungry. We lost track of time constantly, surviving on coffee and bags of chips from the vending machine, and leaving friends and family waiting on us as we turned up late to holiday parties, dinners, and events we’d implored others to attend but couldn’t possibly get to on time, and having forgotten to blend the concealer we’d hurriedly dotted on in the train, with paint under our nails and bits of thread or glue on our jacket cuffs.
In Lu I’d found not only the perfect work companion, but a kindred spirit. Over the nine years we’d worked together, we’d enjoyed laughing over our shared love of no-nonsense ponytails, and waxing poetic about old films and vintage fashion. We sat in her living room or mine, rewatching the movies that had shaped us and sharing stories of our schoolgirl walls plastered with images of iconic women of the silver screen, while our schoolmates favored posters of half-clothed men. So, when the idea for the newest exhibit started floating around our superiors’ offices upstairs, we’d spent many a night poring over which films we’d choose if asked, and then deliberated, scrapped, and chose again until we had the perfect array.
Out of curiosity, we began to inquire with movie studios about the costumes we’d be interested in displaying, running into new obstacles with each call we made. Several times we chose a beloved film only to find half the costumes had been lost in a fire, were part of a decades-long legal battle, or were just plain lost—a travesty over which we consoled ourselves with a huge plate of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas. Eventually, the decisions about which movies to include boiled down to three simple things: Where were the costumes we’d need? Would they be available to us for the time required? And what kind of shape were they in?
Once we’d gotten the green light that the exhibit was on, we finalized our list, made the calls, gathered confirmations, and began the design for the wing the costumes would be shown in. And then we waited, barely able to contain ourselves as one by one the garments that would be featured in The Hollywood Glamour Exhibition arrived.
We chose two movies per decade, going back one hundred years to the 1920s. Every piece that had been worn by the female lead was sent to us from studios, museums, or estates. Once in our possession, my job as costume curator, along with my staff of seven, was to remove each gown or outfit from its protective garment bags or boxes, and go over it with a fine-tooth comb, looking for tears, stains, missing buttons, and the like. We’d been working for months. Some of the more intricate gowns needed extensive rebeading or sequin replacement, and many of the older pieces needing patching inside to hold the outside fabric together. In two cases we’d had to sew exact replicas of the linings, and then carefully fit them inside the original, giving it something to cling to, extending its life.
A pantsuit from the forties had lost an outside pocket and matching the fabric had been hell. The brim of an iconic straw hat that belonged to another outfit had been scorched by a cigarette and needed to be patched. Each garment presented its own set of unique problems, and we were giddy as we worked to solve each puzzle.
With our intention for each item to be viewed from all sides, it was crucial they looked as flawless as possible. Thankfully, my team were experts in their field, and excited at the opportunity to handle costumes worn by some of the most famous women in film history.
“Can’t believe we’re down to the final film,” Lu said, running a finger over a strip of fringe hanging from a black evening gown. “I think this batch is my favorite.”
I nodded, taking in the room of costumes from the 1928 film The Star. Each piece had been worn by the iconic Greta Garbo and was the epitome of elegance and class. And a notable diversion from the designer’s usual style.
“It’s so odd Cleménte changed her MO for this one film,” I said, tilting my head as I took in the distinct wide neckline featured in each of the eight pieces. Even a blouse and jacket had been designed to show off the actress’s collarbones. The pieces were alluring, but Cleménte had always been known for a more modest style.
Michele Cleménte had been a well-known designer in the ’20s and ’30s, her signature style demure, with higher necklines and longer hems. But for this movie, she’d completely diverged.
“It is strange,” Lu said, frowning. “The studio must’ve wanted something exact.”
“Then why hire her?” I asked. “Not that she didn’t do a lovely job. The clothing is exquisite. I’d wear them all now.”
“And look fab doing it.”
I felt myself blush with pleasure at the compliment. Being tall and willowy had its advantages. Unfortunately for me, I had neither the opportunity nor the bank account to wear clothes as fine as the ones before us.
“Thanks, Lu,” I said, bending to peer closer at the large white beaded star on the white satin gown that was to be the centerpiece for the entire show.
Aside from the star, the rest of the fabric had been left unadorned, letting the beaded element shine before one’s eye went to the skirt, which fell in soft overlapping layers to the floor. It was a stunning piece of art. But a confusing one. Because it
had no resemblance to any piece ever sewn before by Cleménte. At least not any piece I’d seen in my years of studying the different famous designers. It didn’t have her specific way of hand sewing or her distinctive technique of tying off a knot, or even her tendency toward geometric shapes. But it was the neckline that really threw me off. Cleménte had preferred to leave a lot to the imagination. It was her calling card during a time when everyone else was showing more skin. And yet for these, she’d completely gone off-script.
The rest of the crew arrived at nine on the dot and the quiet of the room rose to a dull roar as individual desk lights were turned on, loupes donned to scrutinize the tiniest details, and we all began to sew, glue, and chat our way through the day.
“Syl?”
I glanced up and winced as my back protested from having been bent over a table for the past hour. Lu stood, her coat over her arm, by the door. Everyone else had vanished.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Nearly seven.”
“Shit. How does that always happen?” I pulled the loupes from my head.
“You happen to be in love with a dress,” Lu said. “That’s how.”
“Story of my life.”
“Explains so much.”
“Does it?”
“I mean, it definitely explains why you haven’t had a date with a real live human in a while. Only—” She gestured to the mannequin beside me.
We laughed. She wasn’t wrong.
Lu was the only person who truly understood me. The only person besides my sister who I’d ever allowed to see inside my guest room closet where dozens of scavenged vintage dresses, trousers, jackets, and hats hung, waiting to be delicately cared for like the ones I lovingly handled at work.
“You gonna stay?” Lu asked, watching me as I looked back at the dress spread out before me.
I rubbed my eyes and stared at the tiny white beads I’d been replacing. We’d named the dress The Diaphanous Star, and I’d been carefully sewing on one bead at a time for the past two hours. It was a delicate task as the fabric they clung to was nearly one hundred years old. I had to work slowly and thoughtfully to keep from shredding it.
“Yeah,” I said, rotating my head. “I want to get this star done. How’d you do today?”
I glanced over at the black evening gown she was working on.
“I’m close,” she said. “You can barely see the snag in the back now, and I should be able to replace the bit of fringe that’s missing tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” I said, reaching over to wake my laptop and clicking on the calendar. “We are ahead of schedule, which bodes well should we have any catastrophes.”
Lu knocked a small wooden box holding scissors inside it.
“Don’t jinx us,” she said and then waved. “See you B and E.”
“See you B and E,” I said.
B and E. Bright and early. We’d made it up one day after the youngest woman in our group rattled off a bunch of acronyms as if the rest of us should know what they mean. We used it constantly. She didn’t think it was amusing. This of course made it that much funnier.
I pulled my loupes back down and resumed placing the beads that formed the shimmering star. Thirty minutes later I sat up, set the magnifying glasses on the table, and arched my back in a well-deserved stretch.
“Okay, you,” I said to the dress. “Time to get you on a mannequin.”
Sliding my arms beneath the gown, I lifted it carefully and carried it to the far end of the table where a mannequin with roughly Greta Garbo’s 1927 torso measurements stood in wait,
minus its arms which would be attached once I got the dress on it.
Unfortunately, the wide neckline made it hard to secure.
“You’re pretty,” I muttered, trying to keep the dress from slipping to the floor while I reached for one of the arms. “But a pain in my ass.”
I clicked an arm into place, moving the capped sleeve over the seam where the appendage attached to the shoulder, and making sure the hand was resting just right on the mannequin’s hip. Satisfied, I reached for the other arm and did the same on the other side.
“Not bad, headless Garbo,” I said, straightening the gown and smiling at the beaded star glimmering under the lights.
I grabbed my notepad and made my way around the dress, writing down problems that still needed to be addressed. Loose threads, the unraveling second tier of the skirt, and a bit of fabric that looked like it had rubbed against something and was scuffed. There was a stain on the hem in back, and one of the capped sleeves sagged, leading me to investigate and find a spot inside where the elastic was stretched out of shape.
My eyes moved along every inch of fabric, bead, and thread, my fingers scribbling notes as I took in what was easier to see with the dress hanging rather than sprawled on a tabletop. As I scrutinized the neckline in back, I noticed the tag was exposed and reached up to tuck it in. But as I pulled the material back, the tag fluttered to the floor.
With a sigh, I bent to pick it up. I could leave the fix until morning, but as I had nothing but an empty apartment waiting for me, I began the task of detaching the arms of the mannequin and sliding the dress back off and onto the table.
“Always something with you ladies,” I said, grabbing a needle and thread. “Can’t complain, I guess. Hottest date I’ve had in a while.”
But as I turned my attention to the spot the tag had fallen
from, I frowned and pulled the dress closer, peering at a small, elegant stitch no longer than the length of the tag that had covered it.
“Is that…”
I grabbed my loupes and looked again, the stitching now magnified and leaving zero doubt that beneath the tag, in white thread and a beautiful freehand stitch, was a name—and it wasn’t Cleménte’s.
Sitting back, I removed my glasses and stared at the gorgeous dress with its beautiful wide neckline and capped sleeves, the beaded star, the tiered skirt that was so unlike Cleménte in style, and wondered aloud to the empty room—
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!
Anna Alcott is desperate to have a family. But as she tries to balance her increasingly public life as an indie actress with a grueling IVF journey, she starts to suspect that someone is going to great lengths to make sure that never happens. Crucial medicines are lost. Appointments get swapped without her knowledge. Cryptic warnings have her jumping at shadows. And despite everything she’s gone through to make this pregnancy a reality, not even her husband is willing to believe that someone is playing twisted games with her.
Then her doctor tells her she’s had a miscarriage―except Anna’s convinced she’s still pregnant despite everything the grave-faced men around her claim. She can feel the baby moving inside her, can see the strain it’s taking on her weakening body. Vague warnings become direct threats as someone stalks her through the bleak ghost town of the snowy Hamptons. As her symptoms and sense of danger grow ever more horrifying, Anna can’t help but wonder what exactly she’s carrying inside of her…and why no one will listen when she says something is horribly, painfully wrong.
GRADE: A-
REVIEW:
Full disclosure, I’ve read many of Danielle Valentine’s YA novels (under the name Danielle Vega), her Merciless series being one of the most popular ones. So, I was curious what this author would do in an adult horror novel. I also was curious to read this because the new season of American Horror Story, a series that I really love and watch every year, is going to be based off of this book – and I wanted to read the book prior to viewing the series.
This book explores many things that deal with womanhood and motherhood, and the craziest thing is that what one would think are the horror elements, aren’t really as terrifying as the true elements of the novel. I think I was more horrified by the amount of physical pain and stress the protagonist submitted to during the IVF treatments than when she began having strange cravings (and when I say strange – the cravings are pretty brutal). The men in this novel are mostly trash – so it’s no surprise that they didn’t take any of Anna’s concerns about her body seriously.
This novel is full of twists and turns, and I liked the direction it went rather than going for the tired trope of “evil baby.” I am very curious to see how this book will be adapted in AHS: Delicate and hope that they keep Valentine’s powerful message.
I recommend this book to those who love feminist horror novels that subvert genre expectations.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Sourcebooks Landmark 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!
“Seventy percent of the planet is water. Most of that water is deep ocean. The origin of everything. Less than 5 percent of the deep ocean is mapped. Humans know more about Mars. Anything could be down there. Therefore, everything is.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
Jay Gardiner has given himself a fool’s errand—to find the remains of his deceased father in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Monastery Beach. He knows it’s a long shot, but Jay feels it’s the only way for him to lift the weight of guilt he has carried since his dad’s death by suicide the previous year.
The dive begins well enough, but the sudden appearance of a giant squid puts Jay in very real jeopardy, made infinitely worse by the arrival of a sperm whale looking to feed. Suddenly, Jay is caught in the squid’s tentacles and drawn into the whale’s mouth where he is pulled into the first of its four stomachs. He quickly realizes he has only one hour before his oxygen tanks run out—one hour to defeat his demons and escape the belly of a whale.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I absolutely loved this book – which in a way almost felt like it was two novels in one. One novel is Jay’s battle to escape the various stomachs of the sperm whale he finds himself in, whilst the second novel is Jay’s guilt over his father’s suicide because the two always had a very difficult relationship that only got worse during his father’s cancer – and Jay spent his father’s last few months in life, not living with him or communicating with him. This novel runs against the clock as each chapter notes how much oxygen remains in Jay’s tank, and he’s got very little time to get back out of the whale and up on land before he dies. What I loved about this novel is that it had fast-paced short chapters so reading it was a breeze, but at the same time, it was rich with so many emotions. The reader can’t help but cheer Jay on, wanting him to be freed from the whale, but at the same time, you also hope that Jay can also be freed of his guilt. The novel explores both and I liked the way it ended. I won’t say anything more about it because I think you need to go into this novel blind and experience this journey with Jay.
I recommend this book if you love marine life adventures and character-driven thrillers. I love the ocean so this novel was right up my alley. I’d really love to see this become a film because it would make for an excellent survivalist thriller.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Atria and MTV Books 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!
Hidden away in an old, dilapidated Victorian home, the Dresden witches have been making their prized candies for years. Their secret ingredient would make most people squeamish, but for Lollipop it’s just another typical day at home. Lolli spends her days making candies and longing for her classmate Stella. As her infatuation for Stella deepens, Lollipop begins to question her loyalty to her family. Will she choose love or will she do anything it takes to preserve the Dresden legacy at any costs? Does she have what it takes to be the next head witch or will her powers never be strong enough?
Stella Morris has recently moved to Arcana, California after a tragic incident involving her mother. Stella is both beautiful and popular, but she harbors a darkness in her that threatens to make her whole world come undone.
This coming-of-age queer romance is drenched in blood and sugar.
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!
“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was all those things.
“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t help but relax.”
It’s an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes pricked following another night without sleep. The head housekeeper was threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck and it would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hattie knew that, and she also knew she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him, and firing him would have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to placate him.
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”
“I hope so, but I’m very particular about the room. Can I tell you what I need?”
“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that was always handy. “Go ahead.”
How bad could it be? A woman the week before had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation—answer: no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.
She went above and beyond in her attempts to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.
“I’d like the room to have a mountain view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”
“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The ones at the front face the river.”
She relaxed slightly. So far, so straightforward.
“Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s important, don’t you agree?”
Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child, owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all. She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.
“Bedding is important.” She said what was expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.
It was mortifying to remember that her initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, because normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks falling from buildings, did they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t because they didn’t have a sense of humor.
She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did the police follow we’re sorry to have to tell you…with oops, we made a mistake.
After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d thanked them politely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a) half British and b) very much in shock.
When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two of her homemade cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who had just shattered her world in one short conversation.
She’d stared at the closed door for a full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a matter of minutes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.
Even though two years had passed, there were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excitement because he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.
I think we should get married…
I think we should start a family…
I think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Vermont…
They’d met in England during their final year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then two things had happened. Brent’s grandmother had died, leaving him a generous sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d lost Brent she’d tried to keep everything going the way he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even feel whole?
She realized that while she’d been indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”
“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen because I do struggle with overheating.”
“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be a problem.”
“And pink.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.”
Pink.
“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad and scribbled Help followed by four exclamation marks. She might have written something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you have a particular date in mind?”
“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”
Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.
Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.
“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”
“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”
“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.”
“There’s no way of getting a second window?”
“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before you make your choice if that would help.”
By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.
When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.
How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.
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!
Curious readers and fans of monsters and the macabre, get ready to bulk up your TBR piles! Sadie “Mother Horror” Hartmann has curated the best selection of modern horror books, including plenty of deep cuts. Indulge your heart’s darkest desires to be terrified, unsettled, disgusted, and heartbroken with stories that span everything from paranormal hauntings and creepy death cults to small-town terrors and apocalyptic disasters. Each recommendation includes a full synopsis as well as a quick overview of the book’s themes, style, and tone so you can narrow down your next read at a glance. Featuring a foreword by New York Times bestselling author Josh Malerman and five brand-new essays from rising voices in the genre, this illustrated reader’s guide is perfect for anyone who dares to delve into the dark.
GRADE: A+
REVIEW:
If you’re a horror enthusiast or just beginning to dip your feet into the genre, this book is the ultimate guide for it. I love that Hartmann doesn’t list books from famed horror authors that we all know about (ie. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Mary Shelley). But rather exalts and showcases newer horror authors, both traditionally published and indies. The book is broken down into sub-genres such as paranormal, human monsters, supernatural – etc., and within those sub-genres are sub-sub-genres such as coming of age, eco horror, body horror – etc. This is useful if you love a certain genre and sub-genre and want to find books in that area, so the organization of the guide itself is functional and easy. I also loved how each section highlighted an author and had them leave their personal recommendations of horror books they loved. But what really blew me away (apart from Hartmann’s expertise in the genre) is the beautiful, colorful pages – this is a very aesthetically pleasing book that I dare say could easily be used as a coffee book as well. With this guide in tow, it’s obvious that you’ll never run out of books to read – before the knife strikes!
A truly, comprehensive guide for horror books that will come in handy when you’re looking to read a book and can’t decide what else to read. But if you’re a mood reader such as myself, you can easily select a sub-genre and go to that section of the book and see what’s recommended. One thing is for certain, if you’re a book lover and horror lover, you can’t go wrong with this phenomenal guide.
*Thank you so much to the author and Page Street Publishing for the physical 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!
Two days later, I’m standing outside the elementary school with my laptop in hand. I follow the directions from the Community House home page and walk along the school fence until I reach a narrow road. There it is: a two-story white building with a sign over the canopy at the entrance that says “Hatori Community House.”
I go through a glass door and see an old guy with bushy gray hair at the front desk. In the office behind him, a woman with a bandana sits at a desk writing something.
“Um, I’m here for the computer class,” I say to the old guy.
“Put your name down here. It’s in Meeting Room A.” He points at a folder on the countertop. A sheet of paper inside has a table with columns headed Name, Purpose of visit, Time of arrival and Time of departure.
Meeting Room A is on the ground floor. Going past the front desk to the lobby, I turn right and find it immediately. Through an open sliding door I can see two students sitting at long tables facing each other with their laptops open: a girl a bit older than me with soft wavy hair and an old guy with a square face.
The teacher turns out to be a woman, not a man. Ms. Gonno is probably in her fifties.
I go over and introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Tomoka Fujiki.”
She gives me a friendly smile. “Please, sit wherever you like.”
I choose to sit at the same table as the girl, but at the other end. She and the old guy are concentrating so hard on their own stuff they take no notice of me. I open up my laptop, which I’d already started up at home since I haven’t used it in ages and which took forever to boot. My fingers feel like bananas on the keyboard, probably because I only ever use a smartphone. I should probably do some practice in Word as well.
“Ms. Fujiki, you want to learn Excel, don’t you?” says Ms. Gonno, glancing down at my computer.
“Yes. But this computer doesn’t have Excel.”
She looks at my screen again and moves the mouse around a bit. “Yes it does. I’ll make a shortcut for you.”
A green icon with an X for Excel appears at the edge of the screen. No way! Excel has been hiding in my computer all along?
“I can see you’ve used Word, so I assume you have Office installed.”
I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about… But I did ask a friend at college to set up Word for me when I couldn’t figure it out for myself. Maybe that’s how it got in there. This is what happens when you leave stuff up to other people.
For the next two hours, I learn all about Excel. Ms. Gonno wanders between me and the other two but I get special attention, because I’m the newcomer, I suppose.
The most amazing thing I learn is how to perform addition by highlighting cells. Just press a key and bam! with one touch they all add up! It impresses me so much I can’t help cheering, which Ms. Gonno seems to find funny.
While practising as instructed, I overhear the conversation between Ms. Gonno and the other students. I get the impression they are regulars: the old guy is building a website about wildflowers, while the girl is setting up an online shop. I feel like such a waster. All the time I’ve been lazing around in my apartment doing nothing, not far away these two have been getting on with stuff—learning things! The more I think about it, the more pathetic it makes me feel.
When it’s nearly time to finish, Ms. Gonno says, “There’s no set textbook, but I’ll give you a list of recommended titles. Don’t restrict yourself to these, though. Have a browse in a library or bookshop and see what you can find for yourself that’s easy to follow.” She holds up a computer guide and smiles. “You might like to look in the library here in Community House.”
Library. What a nice-sounding word. So comforting. I feel like I’m a student again. Library… “Am I allowed to borrow books?”
“Yes, anybody who lives in the ward can borrow up to six books for two weeks. I think that’s the rule.”
Then the old guy calls for help and Ms. Gonno goes over to him. I make a note of the recommended titles and leave.
~
The library is also on the ground floor. I pass two meeting rooms and a Japanese-style room at the back of the building beside a small kitchen. The door is wide open with a sign on the wall that says “Library.” Rows and rows of bookshelves fill an area about the size of a classroom. A counter to the left of the entrance is marked “Checkouts and Returns.” Near the front counter a petite girl in a dark-blue apron is arranging paperbacks on a shelf.
Feeling shy, I approach her. “Excuse me, where are the books on computers?”
Her head jerks up and she blushes. She has huge eyes and hair tied back in a ponytail that swings behind her. She looks young enough to still be at high school. Her name tag says “Nozomi Morinaga.”
“Over here.” Still holding several paperbacks, Nozomi
Morinaga walks past a reading table and guides me to a large shelf against the wall. “If you need any recommendations, the librarian is in the reference corner.”
“Recommendations?”
“You tell her what you’re looking for, then she will do a search and give you recommendations.”
I can’t find any of the books Ms. Gonno recommended on the shelf. Maybe I should consult the librarian. Nozomi said she was at the back, so I make my way to the front desk, then look toward the rear. That’s when I notice a screen partition with a sign hanging from the ceiling that says “Reference.”
Heading over, I poke my head around the corner, and yikes! My eyes nearly jump out of their sockets. The librarian is huge… I mean, like, really huge. But huge as in big, not fat. She takes up the entire space between the L-shaped counter and the partition. Her skin is super pale—you can’t even see where her chin ends and her neck begins—and she is wearing a beige apron over an off-white, loose-knit cardigan. She reminds me of a polar bear curled up in a cave for winter. Her hair is twisted into a small bun right on top of her head, and she has a cool kanzashi hairpin spiked through her bun with three white flower tassels hanging from it. She is looking down at something, but I can’t see what exactly.
The name tag around her neck says “Sayuri Komachi.” Cute name.
I edge a bit closer and clear my throat. Ms. Komachi’s eyes roll up to look at me, without moving any other part of her body. The whites of her eyes are enormous. She’s stabbing a needle at something the size of a Ping-Pong ball balanced on a mat the size of a handkerchief. What is she doing? Putting a jinx on someone? I almost scream out loud.
“Ah…it’s, ah…it’s okay,” I manage to squeak, but all I want to do is turn tail and get away as fast as possible.
“What are you looking for?”
Her voice…it’s so weird… It nails my feet to the floor. As if it has physically grabbed hold of me somehow. But there’s a warmth in it that wraps itself around me, making me feel safe and secure, even when it comes from that unsmiling face.
What am I looking for? I’m looking for… A reason to work, something I’m good at—stuff like that. But I don’t think that’s the kind of answer she expects. “Um, I’m looking for books on how to use a computer.”
Ms. Komachi pulls a dark-orange box closer. I recognize the design of white flowers in a hexagon shape. It’s a box of Honeydome cookies. I love these. They’re dome-shaped, with a soft center, and made by Kuremiyado, a company that specializes in Western-style confectionery. They’re not exactly gourmet, but just a little bit special and not something you can just pick up in a convenience store.
When she lifts the lid, I see a small pair of scissors and some needles. She must be using an empty box for her sewing things. Ms. Komachi puts away her needle and ball, then stares at me.
“What do you want to do on the computer?”
“Excel, to begin with. Enough to tick the boxes on a skills checklist.”
“Skills checklist,” Ms. Komachi repeats.
“I’m thinking I might register on a career-change site. I’m not that happy with my current job.”
“What do you do?”
“Nothing great. Just selling ladies clothes in a general department store.”
Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to one side. The flower tassels on her hairpin shake and sparkle.
“Is being a sales assistant in a department store really not such a great job?”
I don’t know what to say. Ms. Komachi waits patiently for my reply.
“Well, I mean… Anybody can do it. It’s not like it was my dream job or anything I desperately wanted to do. I just kind of fell into it. But I live on my own, so I have to work to support myself.”
“You managed to find employment, you go to work every day and you can feed yourself. That’s a fine achievement.”
Nobody’s ever summed up my life in this way before. Her answer makes me want to cry. It’s as if she sees me, just as I am.
“But all I do to feed myself is buy stuff from the convenience store,” I blurt out clumsily, though I know that’s not what she really means by “feed yourself.”
Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to the other side. “Well, the motive doesn’t matter so much as wanting to learn something new. That’s a good attitude to have.”
She turns to the computer, places both hands on the keyboard and pauses. Then she begins typing, at amazing speed! Shoo‑tatatatata! Her fingers move in a blur and I nearly fall over myself in surprise.
Ta! She gives one final tap, then delicately lifts her wrists from the keyboard. Next moment, the printer springs into action.
“These should be suitable for a beginner on Excel.” Ms. Komachi hands me the sheet. A Step-by-Step Guide to Word and Excel, Excel for Beginners, Excel: Fast Efficient Notebooks, A Simple Introduction to Office. Then I notice, right at the bottom, a title that stands out.
Guri and Gura? I stare at the words. The kids’ picture book about two field mice, Guri and Gura?
“Oh, and this too.” Ms. Komachi swivels on her chair slightly as she reaches below the counter. I lean forward a bit more to sneak a look and see a wooden cabinet with five drawers. She opens the top one, which seems to be stuffed with soft, colorful objects, picks one out and hands it to me. “Here you are—this is for you.”
Automatically I hold out my palm and Ms. Komachi drops a lightweight object on to it. It is round and black, about the size of a large watch face and with a straight bit poking out. A frying pan?
The object in my hand is a felted frying pan with a tiny round clasp on the handle.
“Um, what’s this?”
“A bonus gift.”
“Bonus gift?”
“Yes, something fun, to go with the books.”
I stare at the frying pan…er, bonus gift. It is sort of cute.
Ms. Komachi opens the Honeydome box and takes out her needle and ball again. “Have you ever tried felting?”
“No. I’ve seen it on Twitter and stuff, though.”
She holds up her needle for me to see. The top is bent at a right angle for holding it, while the tip at the end has several tiny hooks sticking out.
“Felting is mysterious,” she says. “All you do is keep poking the needle at a ball of wool and it turns into a three-dimensional shape. You might think that you are simply poking randomly, and the strands are all tangled together, but there is a shape within that the needle will reveal.” She jabs roughly at the ball again.
There has to be a ton of felted things inside that drawer. Are they all bonus gifts to give away? But her attention is now completely focused on her hands, as if to say My job here as librarian is done.
When I return to the shelf of computer books, I find the recommended titles and choose two that seem easy enough to understand. But what about Guri and Gura? Maybe I should get that too. I read it many times when I was in kindergarten. I think I remember my mother reading it to me too. Why would Ms. Komachi recommend this book? Did she make a mistake?
The children’s picture books are in a space next to the window sectioned off by low bookshelves. It’s a shoes-off area covered with interlocking rubber floor mat tiles. When I enter and find myself surrounded by lots of cute picture books, I feel peaceful all of a sudden. Calmer, and more relaxed. There are three copies of Guri and Gura. I guess the library keeps multiple copies because it’s such a classic. Maybe I will borrow it… I mean, it’s free, isn’t it?
So I take my two computer books and Guri and Gura over to Nozomi at the checkout counter, show my health-insurance card as ID to apply for a borrower’s card, and check out the books.
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!
Welcome to Neverton, Montana: home to a God-fearing community with a heart of gold.
Nestled high up in the mountains is Camp Damascus, the self-proclaimed “most effective” gay conversion camp in the country. Here, a life free from sin awaits. But the secret behind that success is anything but holy.
And they’ll scare you straight to hell.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I didn’t know what to expect when I dove into this story, but boy did it surprise me numerous times! I thought the beginning was going in one direction and then it completely took another narrative and I loved every single minute of this wild ride. The terrifying moments were creepy AF and I absolutely loved the protagonist Rose, who stepped up and became the most badass final girl. Although the demons were incredibly scary, the scariest aspect for me was the Christian cult mentality from the beginning and the lengths this cult went to obliterate any queerness in someone. This is a very timely book seeing the climate surrounding queer people, and I love that this exists to show how wrong it is to try to “convert” queerness into straightness – no matter what.
I wasn’t aware of Chuck Tingle before this novel (maybe I’ve lived under a rock!) but I’m very happy to say that I’m a full-fledged buckaroo now and will look forward to anything else he puts out (no matter how far out it is!).
Check this book out if you love coming of age, creepy demons and insects, and a badass protagonist.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Tor Nightfire 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 Inkblotters 