Review: GOD IN BLACK IRON and other stories by Matthew X. Gomez

Matthew X Gomez’s literary heart and soul is in good ol’ fashioned rollicking pulp fiction, or more accurately its modern evolution New Pulp, a literary movement he’s more than lent his hand in codifying and legitimizing in his stint as an influential magazine editor. His own aptitude, budding craftsmanship/artistry, and infectious enthusiasm for the form are all on full display in these twenty-two tales. He knows the ins and outs of what makes the form tick at its essence. There’s not a dull entry in this collection of tales, which run the gamut from cyberpunk, paranormal noir, sword and sorcery, and in at least two cases, that last one’s crueler, tougher, more defiant and unpredictable younger brother Grimdark fantasy. There were also more than a few tales that stood out as true showcases of what Gomez has to offer, some of which genuinely caught fire for me in, y’know, that rare, special way. It’s often in the shorter pieces where Gomez’s true, uninhibited imagination starts to shine in all its perverse, uninhibited glory (such as in atmospherically Gothic, unsettlingly erotic A Call of Vengeance, or the Weird Western Paid In Blood), though these are also often the pieces were one wishes Gomez had let them be longer, giving them room to breathe in all their perverse glory, whatever that might have been. God in Black Iron and Other Stories eBook: Matthew X. Gomez,  Scott, Ran: Kindle Store

The standout entries here include:
Ashton & Marcus: The Mead Trip – Two mismatched dimension-hopping adventurer-for-hire buddies, from seemingly disparate realities who somehow got this far on brawn, guts, luck, and rudimentary wits, sort of like Ash from Army of Darkness paired with a beleaguered Viking, bumble their way through Michael Moorcock or maybe Roger Zelazny’s multiverse, just looking for a place for a quiet drink after the last adventure. Spoiler-altert: they get more than they bargained for. Their banter at times reminded me of Joe Lansdale’s Hap and Leonard on acid. The energy and attitude in this piece gave me a sense of Gomez truly starting to let himself off the leash, his own voice starting to crystalize into something special.

Comes A Slayer – The most meditative slow-burn in the collection, and as a result one of the most gripping, haunting and surprising. What begins as a simple, familiar lone-wandering-dragon-slayer-for-hire-comes-to-town piece steadily peals back its layers to reveal something a little different…and a lot trippy, nightmarish, and exhilarating.

Sword of the Legion – What starts as a POW-plotting-escape yarn (Roman soldier captured by Picts) tale takes a sharp left turn that caught me off guard, the results of which I’m not likely to soon forget.

The Whalebone Cane – A junkshop owner gets a strange customer who’s particularly excited about happening upon the title artifact. The best I can further describe this little piece without giving anything away is that Gomez does a very effective job at putting the reader in the shoes of someone experiencing a very unusual encounter, the kind that leaves one blinking and going, “Uh…Yep, okay, that just happened…What in the actual f**k?”

Nothing Like Getting Rained On – A fast, nasty, supernaturally flavored crime-noir story of double-cross and revenge. Perhaps Gomez at his most nihilistically mean-spirited (and I mean that as a compliment; in my opinion, the author of this kind of story hasn’t done their job right if you don’t afterwards feel just a little bit like you need to shower off the urban filth the characters call normal…and Gomez does his job right).

The worst I can say about any of these stories is that after a while, certain repeated motifs start to stick out and grow a little repetitive. No one story here would suffer on its own from, say, the “Someone shows up to hire/beg a world-weary  reluctant/annoyed hardboiled protagonist to find/rescue someone for them” formula, but lumped together, it gets a little obvious…even if there were a few standouts that genuinely used said formula to maximum effect on their own, such as the opening cyberpunk piece Limitless). Some of the sword-and-sorcery pieces left me wishing for a little more sense of distinctive world-building, beyond simple “recognizable historical time/place, with the names swapped out and some magic thrown into the mix”/”could be any D&D village”/etc. But that’s a personal preference.

Overall, if you want some fast, fun short-fiction with sharp teeth and some true gems in the mix, look no further.

Order the paperback here; e-book coming soon.


Review: The Renegade God

Great review of THE RENEGADE GOD.

Pyles of Books

The Renengade God Art Update With text

Matt Spencer I think, gets a sense when it’s been too long since I reviewed one his books and he just sends me one to review. I mean, maybe he actually didn’t do that, but he did send this to me out of the blue, which was a great surprise and pleasure.

Back ito his world dark fantasy world of CHANGING OF THE GUARD(that I reviewed a couple months back), we are given the sister and brother rogues, Tia and Ketz. When they piss off the wrong bounty hunter, their hands are forced onto the security force of a cargo ship manned by a wealthy merchant and his crew. When tasked to kidnap his daughter, Hallucia, the pair soon find out that they may have finally bitten off more than they could chew.

Spencer’s fantasy is always fantastically pulpy,  swords swing, the blood flows, quite often with a small chuckle…

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Review: The Night and the Land

First review of the new edition of The Night and the Land

Pyles of Books

The Night And The Land Art-001 TEXT

Matt Spencer is back with a new edition of his debut novel, THE NIGHT AND THE LAND. It dropped yesterday on May, 13th from Back Roads Carnival Books, but I was happy to read and review the new edition.

Book one of the Deschembine trilogy, we follow Sally Wildfire, who is on the run from her heartless family. Hiding among the exiles of mainstream society, Sally falls in love with Rob, a man with memories of a long gone realm and placing them both on a road to a violent rite of passage. Meanwhile, Sally’s family leaves their mark on the countryside on their way to Brattleboro, where the pair are hiding, marked by blood and corpses.

Coming off his newest novel, Changing of the Guards, this story reads slightly rougher around the edges, but at it’s core is still the fast wit and brutal action that is a…

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PULP APPEAL: MAKE ME NO GRAVE (guest post by Matt Spencer)

My review of Hayley Stone’s Weird Western “Make Me No Grave”

Broadswords and Blasters

Editors’ Note: Matt Spencer is the author of numerous novellas and short-stories, as well as the novels The Night and the LandThe Trail of the Beast, and Summer Reaping on the Fields of Nowhere. His latest book is Changing of the Guards. He’s been a journalist, New Orleans restaurant cook, factory worker, radio DJ, and a no-good ramblin’ bum. He’s also a song lyricist, playwright, actor, and martial artist. As of this writing, he lives in Brattleboro, Vermont.

an effective Wild West tale is harder than it looks, for the same reasons as
any form of historically-inspired adventure fiction, though in some ways even
more so. On the one hand, there’s a consciously mythologized landscape that the
audience knows well, at the very least by pop cultural osmosis, and from which
they expect certain things. On the other hand, modern readers tend to view such

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Changing of the Guards comes out April 1. You can pre-order it now from Amazon in e-book and paperback. The e-book is only $0.99 if you pre-order it. For now, check out the gorgeous cover by Pablo Fernandez and read the first chapter here:

Front Cover Final rgb


Severen never quite lost consciousness on the way to the enemy camp, through the steep, rising hills. His captors wouldn’t let him. Neither would his cramped, dehydrated legs which he kept pumping forward, no matter how much his boots came to feel like leaden weights, especially with all the mud collecting on them. His twisted ankle screamed at him worse and worse. His throat and guts felt dry. He kept wanting to shout – no, plead – for water, but he couldn’t catch enough breath for it. He tried to trace the way they took, but he couldn’t keep his mind or his vision clear enough. Besides, who was he kidding, what good would that do?

Sometimes he thought, Why am I not dead yet? Most of the time, though, all he could think was, One way or another, I’m gonna kill that fucker Rorkaster. Beyond that, he no longer formed coherent thoughts. He just knew that his skull hurt so bad that it must be cracked somewhere, so his brains were probably leaking out of his ears and nose.

The dip and climb of the mountainous trail grew steeper and sharper, so the ropes on his wrists and ankles tugged and scraped crueler, like they were about to wear straight through to the bone. Finally, his body insisted that he slow down. One of the Schomite bandits hit him with a stick, then kept hitting him till he made his feet pump faster again.

The long, prickly rope tethered him and the rest of the prisoners, a marching line of long, lean, cleanly muscled bodies, with marble-smooth, pale-purple skin that gleamed in the high-altitude light, where it wasn’t caked in rancid gore and mud… all Imperial Spirelight agents like himself, the ones his dumb ass had led to this hellish end, he reminded himself. Best he could figure, he was somewhere in the middle of the chain. He couldn’t tell how many of the others were left, in front of him or behind. The rope connecting them kept scraping his wrists all to hell.

A thump sounded somewhere behind him. His bonds pulled tauter, jerking him about, and everything got heavier. His knees felt like they’d shatter as he kept them from buckling.

“What’s the holdup?” someone shouted from ahead, in the sharp, raspy voice of this breed of Schomites of the deep ranges. Severen wondered blearily how many of his fellow captives knew it, or even had the properly adapted vocal cords with which to speak it. Few if any of them, probably. The poor bastards were probably better off that way.

“One of these glowsticks just crapped out on us,” answered another of the blurry, stocky shapes, in a slightly rougher dialect.

“So get ’em back up and keep the line movin’!”

A rough-shod boot echoed against a meaty trunk. “Ah, shit, this one’s dead.”

“Ain’t one of the important ones, is it?”

“How the fuck should I know? It’s another dead glowstick. I been lookin’ at dead glowsticks all day.”

“It dressed up fancier than the others?”

The first Schomite brave barked out a short, sharp laugh. “None of ’em look fancy to me anymore. It just looks like another dead glowstick.”

“Fuck it, just get the others movin’ again, will you? We’re burnin’ daylight here.”

That was true, Severen noted, even though his eyes were too swollen shut to tell. The high mountain sun wasn’t roasting him in his uniform like it had been earlier. The sweat that soaked him went cold. Even the blood drying on his face and hair made his head feel heavier. The gash in his side might be deeper than he’d first thought. He still felt its cooled wetness, sticky inside his shirt and vest. The longer he trudged, the more it felt like a hot, engorged sack shoved beneath his skin, sending sharper flares of pain with every jostle of movement. It bit into his exposed skin, while he sweated under his gear, chilling him deeper through the bones.

“Want I should cut the carcass loose, Chief? Pitch it over the side?”

A pause followed. “Nah, fuck that. Let the dead asshole drag. You’d waste too much time re-tyin’ the rope. Besides, might as well see how many of ’em can take the dead weight. It’s what these glowsticks deserve, anyhow.”

Severen heard one of the captors give a muted shudder and whisper, “I swear, what’s the point of takin’ all these prisoners if we’re just gonna work ’em to death on the way back to the camp?”

From the front of the line, Severen heard Chief Rorkaster shout, “’Cause that’s how we narrow it down to which of ’em are worth our while. Now get ’em movin’!

Someone struck Severen across the back again. Behind him and in front, the smack of the stick echoed off the backs of his fellow agents. Severen lurched forward with the rest, so his guts jostled and rolled against his cracked ribs and he vomited all over the guy in front of him.

A while later, someone jerked at the rope so Severen stopped in his tracks. So did the one in front. The one behind him must have taken a hair longer to get the message, ’cause that one collided against his back. For an instant, he felt a woman’s breasts against his back. Ella wasn’t the only woman in the company, but that felt like a body almost as tall and muscular as his own, so it was probably her. He said her name, or at least tried. By now, he couldn’t even tell if any sound came out of his sore throat and dry mouth. At least these assholes let him stand still for a moment. He felt thick, soft grass beneath his boots. He lifted his head and blinked deliriously.

Before him, there rose the old wooden stage in the woods from his childhood, the one he and the other kids used to play on. Brecca had just swiped a bag of old spare-part clothes from behind the local tailor’s shop. He’d run giggling with it downhill through a lightly wooded area behind the big barn and dumped it out across the old flat wagon, the one all the kids climbed around on and called a stage while they played dress-up. They tried on whatever grown-up persona they believed came with what they grabbed, so they interacted with each other accordingly. Things got unbelievably goofy and crazy sometimes, on that old stage.

The sky was deep gray… late afternoon. Soon, the younger kids would be called in for dinner or bedtime by their parents. Was that Shrira on the far edge of the stage, half-clad like a scullery wet-nurse, playing with the baby doll? That didn’t seem like her style. By that age, Shrira was usually more interested in burying her nose in some old scroll, or eavesdropping on the grownups while they talked about the latest troublesome news…

Someone slapped Severen across the face. No, he wasn’t a kid playing with his friends in the woods. He was Captain Severen Gris, an International Police Agent of the Spirah Empire, and here he was, captive of the Schomite bandit chief Rorkaster. Those kids on that faraway, long-ago stage had all been Spirelight kids. The only Spirelights here were prisoners of war like himself. One of the Schomite bandits untied him and shoved him forward. His legs gave out and his knees hit the grassy dirt.

“Good a place to start as anywhere, boys,” shouted the chief. “Get the others on their knees and line ’em up around him.”

Severen’s companions were shoved down next to him, on either side. A moment later, someone grabbed him by the wrists and yanked them backwards. He clenched his teeth for how it pulled at the gash in his shoulder. They bound his hands again, this time behind his back, with a shorter cord, along with his ankles.

Severen blinked crust from his eyes. Rorkaster strode by, in front of him. For the first time, Severen got a look at the man up close. He stood almost a head shorter than Severen, which put him taller than a lot of people, taller than any of the local Schomites… but Rorkaster wasn’t a local, Severen reminded himself, not by birth. He stood out from his more wiry Schlogmire cohorts, with his stocky upper body, lean hips, thickly knotted arms, his ears slightly pointier, his tense, gnarled, long-fingered hands that looked sculpted and wired for the exclusive purpose of inflicting pain. Before, at a distance, he’d looked bald as a Spirelight Priest King. Up close, Severen now saw dark, bristly stubble on the crown, cheeks and chin. His skin was a collage of light and dark green patches on ashen white, like lily pads floating in milk.

“Okay, feeding time, come and get ’em, everyone,” shouted the bandit chief. He flung a palm back, indicating Severen and the other prisoners, then he turned to them and smiled. “Just kiddin’, guys. You glowsticks sit tight for a second, hear?”

Severen blinked his eyes clearer. They were in a wide, sunken clearing, surrounded by thick, towering trees. Off to his left, he still saw that old wagon he and his childhood friends used to play on. He blinked again. No, it definitely wasn’t, and these Schomite bandits weren’t kids playing the bad guys in a children’s war-game. Rorkaster grinned down at Severen like a loon.

Severen’s pounding head kept swimming, between one time and place and another. The other kids climbed on and off the stage in various clothes he’d never seen them in. All the malicious hooting and hollering brought him back to the reality of the moment.

Was he in trouble because of what he’d been up to with Shrira, and the other kids knew before he did, so they weren’t talking to him? Here came Shrira’s little brother Chardi, dressed like a Schomite forest bandit. Chardi always loved getting to play the bad guy, when he wasn’t playing pretty songs, when he didn’t know he was serenading his older sister while she made out with Severen in the barn.

Severen wished he was back in that barn with Shrira. He wished he was back in the city-state of Trescha, waking up in her arms.

“So if we ain’t gonna execute ’em, what are we gonna do?” Chardi asked Rorkaster. Today, Chardi sounded a lot like an actual Schomite bandit. That’s because it’s not Chardi, you idiot. Chardi’s been dead for years. It’s the dirt-worshiping prick who whacked you on the head with a sling, back in the gully, earlier today, remember? Not-Chardi said, “Just leave ’em tied up out here to rot alive?”

“You kiddin’?” said Rorkaster. “Fuck no! That’d bother the little kids around here. Can’t have little kids runnin’ around, steppin’ in blood, guts, hair, teeth an’ eyeballs rollin’ all over the place, can we? Plus they’d stink the whole camp up. That’d draw more animals we don’t wanna have to chase off. That, and there’s shit I need to talk about, with this one.” His eyes narrowed on Severen.

“Don’t look like you’ll have much luck. Looks like it’d be nicer to just cut this one’s throat. Otherwise, he’s just gonna live out his days as some brain-dead simpleton, pissin’ and shittin’ himself in back alleys till one day some drunk glowstick goes out to take a piss and trips over his corpse.”

“No thanks to you,” said Rorkaster. “Damnit, Chess, the one interestin’ Spirelight we get alive, and you gotta go give the fucker brain damage!”

“Just hold your shit for a minute, will you?” said Chess. “I’ll go see what the blend lady’s got fresh-brewed.”

Someone nearby shouted, “You don’t quit tryin’ to get up, glowstick, I’ll cut your fuckin’ ankle tendons.”

It took Severen a moment to realize the threat hadn’t been directed at him. His eyes cleared a little. Rorkaster crouched in front of him and grinned. “Anyone still in there, friend?”

Severen tried to snarl venomously at the dirt-worshiping bastard. The sound came out as a pathetic grunt.

“I’ll take that for a yes,” said Rorkaster. “Captain Severen Gris, am I right? Man, I’ll give you this much, you know how to wrangle a crowd. That’s a lot of glowstick agents to keep organized, especially spread out to hold a whole village. More than I like to work with at once, anyhow. You take charge of too many guys at once, gotta tell ’em all what to do, it’s just one more chance for one idiot to fuck it all up for everyone. That must be more of a glowstick skill, am I right? Or maybe not so much, considerin’ how easy it was for my little pack to take out your whole damn command. We ain’t here to talk tactics, though. Naw, what I wanna know is your thoughts on what’s been happenin’ to the livestock in these parts.”

The one called Chess reemerged from the shadows and handed something to Rorkaster. “This is what the blend lady has whipped up. Your boy there, let’s see how much more useful it makes him, or if he chokes to death on it.”

Rorkaster gave Chess a nod, then crouched in front of Severen. He grabbed Severen by the jaw, forced his head back and pried his mouth open. Cool, syrupy, minty-sweet liquid poured into Severen’s mouth and down his throat. Eventually, Rorkaster let go, somehow with more violence than with which he’d grabbed. Severen choked down the strange homespun Schomite medicine, then nearly collapsed forward onto his face. His head bobbed around as though on a loose spring as the concoction rolled through him. Before he knew it, he already felt it flooding his brain. His eyes rolled up, almost all the way back into his skull. He caught the outline of the treetops sharper against the dimming sky.

“That’s it, that’s it…” Rorkaster grabbed Severen’s shoulder in a weirdly friendly way. “Give it a few minutes. After that, I got all sorts of questions for you, and you better remember how to speak honesty. Me, I speak honesty fluidly, so I know how to spot a liar.”

Severen’s head swam as the medicine did its work… back through worlds and ages. Little by little, the Schomite sorcery did its work, repairing his brain, so he finally remembered how he’d wound up here… how it had all started back in the city-state of Trescha.


This book took me by surprise, in a number of ways. As much as I’ve been loving my journey through the hidden riches of modern fantasy and horror in the small-press/New Pulp scene, it’s rare (anywhere in modern literature, really) to see an author at work with such a finely honed, methodically, deliberately implemented grasp of the craft of storytelling. Somer Canon is one such author, as she demonstrates to head-spinning effect in her recent short horror novel KILLER CHRONICLES.
KC cover
Christina and her best friend Anais run the True Crime website Killer Chronicles, which is exactly what it sounds like. When a series of gruesome deaths in a small West Virginia town catches Christina’s eye, she goes on a road trip to do some up-close investigative journalism…which quickly becomes too up-close. The killer turns out to be something other than human, an ancient, many-faced trickster fairy calling herself Grenadine, who takes a special interest in Christina. This being fixates on Christina with something one might call a twisted form of affection, claiming to want to help her, except Grenadine’s idea of being helpful quickly turns out to be the worst thing possible, for Christina and everyone around her.

It’s hard to talk about what makes this book work so well without spoiling any of the surprises, yet this book comes with a lot to unpack, so I’ll keep the as spoilers vague as possible. Where Canon most effectively subverted my expectations was in repeatedly lulling me into a false sense of security about just what kind of book I was reading here. Canon establishes her ability to make the reader’s skin crawl in just the first few pages of the prologue, while subtly cluing us in that there’s something supernatural afoot. We’re then introduced to Christina’s daily life and prepare to follow her through some paranormal sleuthing. Christina can come off as grating and petty at times, but she narrates the tale with such a laid-back, snarky, effortlessly real voice that the reader can’t help but like her. Canon’s depiction of making one’s living as an independent journalist also feels real and fascinating, exploring the process of gathering information, navigating the suspicion and hostility of potential sources, while tackling hot-button subject matter with a controversial approach. Even once Grenadine shows up and starts making (increasingly gruesome, often darkly funny) trouble, I at first felt like I wasn’t reading the Extreme Horror novel this book is marketed as, but rather more of a somewhat darker-and-tenser-than-usual Urban Fantasy tale.

The fascinating thing about Grenadine is that while she’s a mythical, ageless being with priorities and a moral compass that are other than human, there’s a recognizably humanized, somewhat childlike quality to the creature as well…specifically of an all too real sort of narcissistic, manipulative, emotionally abusive personality-type whos play havoc with your life and mind if you get sucked in too close. This leads to the book’s most jolting, redefining turn, where the creature orchestrates a nightmarish situation between the human characters, leading not only to an all-too-human act of horrific violence, but an unflinching depiction of the traumatic aftermath for everyone involved*. From here, Canon foregoes the expected run-of-the-mill climactic final act, instead steering the focus away from the supernatural, into places far more psychologically disturbing, morally/ethically ambiguous. We see the perils of “Be careful what you wish for” taken to a nightmarish extreme, with a dose of scathing satire on modern online media culture. In the end, we’re trapped like flies on the wall, watching things play out to a conclusion that’s both inevitable and almost a non-ending, albeit in a fittingly ironic way, with a closing sentence that’s nothing short of a sardonic masterstroke.

KILLER CHRONICLES is available in e-book and paberback on Amazon, from Bloodshot Books.

Image result for killer chronicles by somer canonSomer Canon lives in Eastern PA with her husband, two sons, and five cats. Her preferred escape has always been reading and writing, and horror has always been the hook that catches her attention best. Feel free to find her on social media and never fear, she’s only scary when she’s hungry! Author website:

* – Fair content warning: trauma survivors, approach with caution.


I grabbed this slim volume on a lark – the first book of oft-anthologized dark scribe Lydian Faust – and was richly rewarded by a surreal, psychological, lightning-swift read that has (almost) everything that a good horror story needs, and nothing it doesn’t. The story first draws us into the uneasy interactions between Luna, a mental patient who may or may not be something other than human, and her psychiatrist, Dr. Alisha Sizemore, whose methods and motives are deeply questionable…all the more so once we meet some of her other patients.

FU cover

The first half of the book is primarily built around the tangled mystery of Luna’s mind and memories, of growing up as…well, a woods-bound homeschooled kid with an unusually dysfunctional family. Other reviewers have made much of Faust’s use of the “subverted/dark fairytale” trope (specifically “Little Red Riding Hood”), but Faust uses this as more of a jumping-off point than anything else, into a much larger, distinctively vivid hidden world, of which we see only the most evocatively unsettling glance. If so inclined, Faust could easily make this the first scant step into a larger mythos of her own invention, reminiscent of the best of Caitlin R. Kiernan…particularly in the menacing, elusive nature of the titular forest and its denizens.  To go into further detail would be to spoil some of the book’s juiciest surprises. The latter portions of the story deal in Alisha’s traumatic youth, first with her narcissistic mother, then the horrific bullying she endures at an elite boarding school, where the haunted dorm room down the hall is the least of her worries. While both Luna and Alisha’s stories are filled with shadowy things that go bump in the night, it’s in the unflinching depictions of all-too-believable human cruelty and the resulting trauma, where Faust truly makes the reader wince and cringe.

The central dramatic tension is anchored in the subtle, slow-burn back-and-forth between Luna and Alisha, neither of whom are wholly reliable narrators. The question isn’t so much “Who should I be rooting for?” as “Who should I be more worried for?” Initially, it’s very much Luna who elicits our sympathies, a troubled young woman who’s come to a bad state, at the shadowy mercy of an icy, ruthless professional*. Whatever’s up with Alisha, though, her own growing unease becomes equally relatable, as Luna reveals not only her unexpected lucidity, but that she may well be holding more of the cards than she first appeared. Faust understands the importance of atmosphere in situations like this, of the relationship between surroundings and human behavior. She’s a natural at painting the echoing, haunting surroundings of Alisha’s maybe-not-quite-what-it-seems psychiatric facility and Luna’s childhood haunted forest in equal measure, often in just a few sentences, where many accomplished writers would require whole paragraphs.

It’s only in the climax where the telling of the tale somewhat falls apart. For one thing, at a pivotal moment, one supporting character’s on-the-job behavior goes zero-to-sixty gung-ho, in a previously unhinted manner, so it feels like Faust was trying to pile one more layer of tension and danger onto the scene than was necessary, at the expense of credibility. And while the big-twist reveal remains shrouded in a certain amount of intentional ambiguity, it feels lacking in thought-out, internal cohesion, in a way that doesn’t do justice to the tale leading up to it. Also, of the two main characters and their intersecting journeys, I felt far less satisfied by the connective tissue of one than the other, between where she begins and where she ends up. Right as this came dangerously close to leaving a sour taste in my mouth, though, Faust hit me with a denouement that’s at once out-of-left-field yet utterly fitting, in a way that left me both satisfied and thirsty for more. I’ll be keeping an eye out for more of this storyteller’s juicy, vivid, haunting tales.

Image result for jeri hogarth* – I kept picturing Alisha Sizemore looking like Carrie-Anne Moss as Jeri Hogarth in Jessica Jones.

LF APLydian Faust is a writer of horror and dark fiction. She is also a painter who likes to lay it on thick. Ms. Faust lives in one of the murder capitals of the United States of America. Her hobbies include nachos and alien conspiracy theories. You can find her at, on Facebook at, and on Twitter @LydianFaust.

Forest Underground is now available on Amazon in e-book and paperback.

Pulp Appeal: THE GETAWAY by Jim Thompson (Guest Post by Matt Spencer)

My latest article for Broadswords & Blasters:

Broadswords and Blasters

Editors’ Note: Matt Spencer is the author of numerous novellas and short-stories, as well as the novelsThe Night and the Land,The Trail of the Beast,andSummer Reaping on the Fields of Nowhere. His latest book is the short-fiction collectionStory Time With Crazy Uncle Matt. He’sbeen a journalist, New Orleans restaurant cook, factory worker, radio DJ, and a no-good ramblin’ bum. He’s also a song lyricist, playwright, actor, and martial artist. As of this writing, he lives in Brattleboro, Vermont.

Among the genre-defining noir writers of the 40s and 50s, Jim Thompson stands out for his brutal subversiveness. Rather than following a hard-nosed detective through a criminal underworld (where our protagonist may be morally ambiguous, but remains, in essence, a clear-cut good guy up against clear-cut bad guys), Thompson was among the first major writers to explore stories from the point of view of…

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Pulp Appeal: Worms of the Earth (Guest Post by Matt Spencer)

My article on Robert E. Howard’s WORMS OF THE EARTH, for Broadswords & Blasters.

Broadswords and Blasters

Editors’ Note: Matt Spencer is the author of numerous novellas and short-stories, as well as the novels The Night and the Land, The Trail of the Beast, and Summer Reaping on the Fields of Nowhere. His latest book is the short-fiction collection Story Time With Crazy Uncle Matt. He’s been a journalist, New Orleans restaurant cook, factory worker, radio DJ, and a no-good ramblin’ bum. He’s also a song lyricist, playwright, actor, and martial artist. As of this writing, he lives in Brattleboro, Vermont.

If you know me and/or the kind of stuff I write, you’re probably at least passingly familiar with the works of Robert E. Howard, even if only by reputation, as to the man’s profound influence on the evolution of heroic adventure lit, and fantasy/speculative-fiction in general. On those merits, whether you’ve read him or not, you probably already have an idea whether or not…

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