This title will be published on June 10, 2025 by Peachtree Teen.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Vesuvius.

“It’s less that I think there is a reason for hurt, and more that faith gives us grace to heal. To come out the other side and try again.”

Don your togas, buckle your sandals, and travel back in time to the ancient Roman city of Pompeii. Cass Biehn’s debut LGBTQ and young adult historical fantasy novel, Vesuvius, tells the story of Felix, a clever thief with a mysterious past, and Loren, a tender-hearted temple attendant plagued with nightmares of the future.

When Felix steals the Helmet of Mercury, a coveted artifact no mortal can touch, he seeks shelter in the Temple of Isis. Felix’s stay is anything but pleasant as he’s knocked unconscious by Loren, who’s been haunted by strange visions of Felix burning down the city. Together, Felix and Loren must discover how their fates are connected to prevent Loren’s visions from becoming reality and unleashing disaster upon Pompeii.

Biehn’s creation of two angsty, authentic, and well-developed main characters is excellent. Through alternating perspectives, Biehn gives Felix and Loren clear, distinct voices that serve as foils for one another. Felix is a brash and sarcastic young man who’s quick to think on his feet and constantly in motion. Loren is anxious and compassionate, often putting the good of others above himself. When Felix awakens in the temple, the juxtaposition of their personalities shines. Felix is untrusting of Loren and believes “kindness came with limits,” whereas Loren arrives with grapes and gauze and immediately offers to tend Felix’s wounds. Loren goes so far as to vouch for Felix’s honor, knowing any trouble Felix causes would fall onto his shoulders.

As the old saying goes, “opposites attract,” and Biehn uses this technique to create a slow-burn romance between the two boys without feeling too contrived. Felix grows protective of Loren, feeling seen when “other gazes skated past” him, and Loren admires Felix’s “clever mind” and how he listens to Loren when everyone else dismisses him and his visions. The thread connecting Felix and Loren is that they’re two lost boys looking for a place to belong. Thankfully, their love story is riddled with highs and lows, making it feel less like a tropey YA love story and more like a real relationship with misunderstandings and forgiveness.

The world-building is also well researched. From page one, Biehn grounds us in their rich imagining of Pompeii as we follow Felix on the run, tasting the dust from the street, feeling the warmth of the Mediterranean sun on our skin, and fearing the swift unsheathing of a sword behind us. Biehn sprinkles in plenty of historical context with the inclusion of villas and socio-economic differences in ancient Roman society, the primitive drug of poppy sap, accurate temple layouts, and Roman mythology sure to make history buffs happy.

But the strongest aspect of the book is Biehn’s refusal to hold back from exploring serious social issues like inequality and sexual abuse through Felix as he reflects, “power is under the control of the wealthy, not the masses.” An essential aspect of Felix’s character development is his past trauma and learning to find hope again through his healing relationship with Loren. As a child, Felix was raped by a priest while in the Temple of Mercury. Biehn does a nice job of showing this trauma through Felix’s aversion to physical touch. But when he’s with Loren, Felix realizes, “despite the hurts he had known, there were other things worth believing in … Touch often settled sticky over his flesh, and even gentle hands triggered his instinct to flee. But there was something different about Loren. He didn’t touch in order to take.”

While Vesuvius’s central theme revolves around trauma, survival, and healing, Biehn’s short sentences and casual writing style do a nice job of balancing the more serious moments with the comical ones. Part of this book’s charm is Biehn’s humor erupting through sentences like “Gods, youth are so mouthy these days.”

However, Biehn’s voice was a bit of a double-edged sword and got distracting at times. One of my biggest hangups was Vesuvius’s use of modern-day slang, which jarred me out of the historical setting, like Felix introducing himself as “Fuck” to the temple priest and Loren telling a guard to worry about “the state of his balls” as he attacks. These moments felt inauthentic and immature, decreasing my enjoyment of the narrative. There was also a heavy reliance on similes throughout the book, which made the story feel slightly too “authorial” than character-driven at times.

The pacing and plot were also inconsistent. The novel starts strong as we follow Felix on a heart-pounding chase and quite literally crash into Loren inside the temple of Isis. However, after their initial introduction, there’s a lot of talk and not a lot of action as several mysterious subplots compete. I wished Biehn kept their focus on one of these threads, like Felix and Loren’s backstory and the sure eruption of Mount Vesuvius, rather than adding murder mysteries and political turmoil.

Additionally, there were moments of tension that resolved too quickly. Namely, Loren’s pivotal decision to either let Felix wear the Helmet of Mercury and “learn his memories at the risk of him turning cruel” or to keep the helmet away from Felix to try and protect him from his dark past. Loren only confesses the truth to Felix about the helmet’s ability to restore his memory when Vesuvius erupts. Felix saves Loren’s life by slapping the Helmet of Mercury onto Loren’s head to protect him, ultimately destroying the magic relic and Felix’s chances of making peace with his damaging past. After all the intrigue about the Helmet of Mercury and scenes where Loren communicates with Felix’s “ghost” (or traumatized self) in his dreams, the destruction of the helmet and the boys’ safe arrival at Loren’s family estate in the final third of the book felt like a letdown. I wanted Biehn to linger more in Felix’s losses and grief. But the story rushes past all this to focus on Loren’s self-pity and survivors’ guilt rather than the repercussions of Mount Vesuvius obliterating Pompeii and Felix’s discovered identity as an heir of the Roman god Mercury.

Overall, Vesuvius is a promising debut with an intriguing concept. I admire how Biehn doesn’t pull their punches about the lingering effects of abuse and trauma while still emphasizing the importance of restoring faith and trust in humanity. Biehn’s approachable and sarcastic style makes Vesuvius a fun read and a good fit for fans of Casey McQuiston and Adam Silvera. 

The knell at the door tolls. 

I turn. A black paw swipes mercilessly at my face—claws sharp, bloody, and vicious. I snap my fingers. He freezes mid-snarl. I hum indifferently.

He is sleek, his coat gleaming under the club’s cold neon. This panther will drink Death in the Afternoon. 

“Welcome to the Nightclub for the Newly Departed,” I say. “Denial, yearning, and violence are not permitted here.” I nod to one of the many signs plastered around the club:

RULES—Once you step into the premises . . . “What will you have today?”

It’s a meaningless, ritualistic question; I’m already retrieving a coupe glass. The panther drops to his haunches, growling. His eyes are the color of a split lime. 

Perfect, I muse as I work. The right absinthe, topped with champagne, creates a heavy cocktail as green as his gaze. 

“You look like one of them.” He hisses. 

Lemon twist on the rim. I slide the coupe glass over to him and press my fingers together. Snap,and the glass is replaced with a broad glass dish. “I was born millennia before your poachers. I did not know them.”

“Why did they kill me?”

Arrogance. Money. Boredom. Desperation. “Drink,” I say. “Be at peace.”

The panther growls. “My life was unfairly ripped from me. Peace?”

I can see his fury; it coils off him like smoke and hisses like a lit fuse. 

Murder victims are all the same. Rage blankets helplessness, but never extinguishes it.

They are not my favorite customers.

“Drink,” I repeat.

“No.”

“What do you want? Revenge?”

His tail lashes. “I want them to burn in the wildfires they set to my home. To feel their own bullets tear through their hearts.”

I spin into the usual rhetoric. “Revenge is a fantasy. We are on an entirely different plane from reality. You will never see them again. Will you let that anger consume you? Drink.”

The panther does not consider my words; his unwavering gaze does not break. “You,” he hisses, prowling the table. “You are worse than them.”

“I told you I never associated with your poachers.”

“No. You. You, with your monotone voice and your indifferent gaze. I would rather see hate, or the pride in my killers’ eyes. Have you spent your millennia holding yourself above the pain of others? Have you been so devoid of life that you have lost your heart?”

My fingers falter on the counter. 

“This job calls for no empathy,” I say, after a beat too long. “I serve and endure.”

He studies me, head tilted, tail curling in silent question. Then, finally, he dips his head and laps at the cocktail. The dish is empty in seconds.

“Acceptance,” I say, my voice thinner than I intend. “To drink is to accept.”

The panther looks at me one last time, searching for something I cannot name. Then he leaps off the counter, vanishing into the scattered crowd. I watch him go, tasting absinthe on my tongue.

It is bitter, sharp, and green.

Hidden in the alleys of Montmartre, where the cobblestones remember revolution and romance, The Velvet Requiem is whispered about in passing, in prayer, and in dreams. It’s not a place you find—it finds you. When your pulse stops but your soul stirs, when regret clings to you tighter than skin, it opens its doors.

Tonight, like every night, the velvet curtains breathed in rhythm with jazz.

Dazai Osamu sat in the booth farthest from the stage, shadowed and silent, with his long coat slung over his shoulders like fallen angel’s wings. His glass of absinthe was untouched, its pale green hue casting strange ghosts on the polished table.

He was dead but not gone.

The dead don’t stay dead at The Velvet Requiem, not when their stories are unfinished.

He leaned back, eyes closed, half listening to the band warm up. And then, the stage lit gold. He opened his eyes.

In a suit and a hat tipped low, stood Chuuya Nakahara.

Not a singer tonight—the singer.

He stepped into the light like it owed him something. And when he sang, the whole room tilted like iron to magnet.

The first note hit like memory. His voice was a low-throated lament, velvet and ruin, sliding down every spine and soaking every thought in longing. Dazai couldn’t look away.

He recognized him. He always did.

Every soul remembered who made them feel alive, even in death.

When the song ended, the room exhaled.

He found Chuuya later in the side lounge in a haze of red lamps and lonely melodies.

“Still haunting the place?” Dazai asked, leaning in with a lazy, melancholic charm he

wore like a second skin.

Chuuya sipped his wine dark as blood and twice as dangerous. “Still pretending you don’t belong here?”

“I don’t,” Dazai said. “I’m only here until I forget what I died for.” Chuuya turned, eyes glowing under the dim light. “And have you?”

“Not tonight.”

They sat in silence, the kind that tastes like grief and unspoken desire.

Chuuya’s voice cut through it. “You ever think maybe this place isn’t purgatory? Maybe it’s… salvation.”

“I don’t believe in salvation,” Dazai said. “Only detours.”

Chuuya smiled—sharp, tragic, unshaken. “Then let this be a beautiful one.”

His hand touched Dazai’s across the table. The contact was soft. Real. Too real. And suddenly Dazai felt there again. Not quite dead. Not quite whole. But feeling.

“I remember you,” Dazai whispered, as if the words could bring back the heartbeat he lost. “I remember how you sang in the rain the night the world ended.”

Chuuya tilted his head. “That night… I think I was singing for you.”

They didn’t leave together, not exactly. The Velvet Requiem doesn’t allow endings—it only offers interludes.

But as Dazai followed Chuuya through the hall of mirrors, past dancing phantoms and

tearful saints, he realized he didn’t want to move on yet.

Some songs are too beautiful to end.

And some souls… are too entangled to part.

I.

You can’t remember when the rash first appeared. The little buds, poppyseed size, have barely faded since making your forearm their homestead. They were flush, defiant little things, untouchable by creams.

There’s a ritual you do that helps, though. Fifteen minutes soaking in Epsom salt water. Lit candles scented like sugared almonds. You don’t need it, not anymore, but it relaxes you. Soothes the itch.

Your eyes drift to your arm as it rests below the surface. The clotted blooms stare back at you. Blood-red, you think, like your favorite going-out lipstick—the color you’d wear each night to Club Eden, a crimson offering to God in the hopes He’d send “the one.”

Moonlight slivers through your moth-eaten curtain, and in its glow, you watch as paper wings flutter and dance.

II.

The rash spreads to your collarbone. It slinks between your breasts like crawling ivy. In some sick, slightly Freudian way, they remind you of flowers; you want to nourish them, water them, tell them it’s okay.

You inspect the growth at your vanity. The little red clusters have swollen into being, almost pulsing with life. Your hands ghost over the fields, stopping right below the abdomen.

You’re beginning to think this is your fault.

How careless you’d been that night. You barely remember his name—but you remember how his hands snaked around your waist, how far he led you from Eden. The test read positive a week later, and in four more, you lost it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to see a doctor.

Beautiful Flora, your mama once called you. She’d roll in her grave if she saw you now.

III.

The moment you felt the itch on your face, you knew that nothing could be done. Every bump has become a slick, milky pustule. The swelling smothers your body like a strangler fig. You can no longer look at yourself.

You’ve confined yourself to the mattress. It’s the only way to reach Heaven, now. A thick white sheet covers your vanity,  your curtains, a veil from the outside world. You wonder, again, if this is His punishment for that night. As if losing the child was not enough. As if every second spent repenting since the blood came was not enough. Your hands clasp together in a desperate, trembling litany.

But a sudden, sharp pain stifles all thoughts of devotion. Your whole body tightens, tightens, tightens, until you’re grasping at your sheets, pathetic and shameful and writhing. It hurts, you think, it hurts, it hurts—

but this, in the end, will be your salvation.

IV.

It takes hours for the pain to finally subside. Your breathing slows to a deadened rhythm. A white-heat haze clouds your vision, and just barely, you make out the fruits of your labor.

Newborn larvae, departing from the petalled remains of your skin. Little crescent angels. A swarming, holy Primavera.

You watch them dance, the way you once did, as you sink into His restful arms.

Nate Ragolia

The Nineties: A Book

As someone born in the early eighties (Yes, we have a couple of oldies here at F(r)iction), the 1990s holds a special place in my heart. It was a “simpler time” in that we had still had a monoculture, even as it saw massive changes to how war was done, how the global economy was shaped, how we viewed race, gender, and sexuality, how politics would change irreversibly, how we’d confront terrorism, gun violence, cloning, the fall of Communism, and more…  And that was before the internet even took shape.

To process just how complex the world of my teenage years really was, I’ve been reading Chuck Klosterman’s 2022 book The Nineties. Klosterman’s thoughtful dissection of the era from Ross Perot to Michael Jordan’s retirement and unretirement to the Unabomber to Dolly the Sheep to The Matrix is riveting, not just because I lived it but precisely because living in the moment means missing so much. And that was especially true in a time when the news showed up in paper each morning or on TV briefly at night, but wasn’t the constant mood that it is in 2025.

If you’re seeking solace in near history and the lessons we could have learned, and maybe still can, this book might be for you. And if you just want to reminisce about Nirvana, early Tarantino, and the O.J. Simpson trial this book will hit the spot.

Sara Santistevan

Spilling the Chai

April is National Poetry Month, which means I’m more than inspired to read satiating poetry that leads me to the following question: What ingredients make a poem “good?” Pungent imagery, spicy metaphors, and a gut-punch ending that lingers immediately come to mind. So when I saw chocolate mints the other day and immediately thought not of Olive Garden, but rather, “the paradox of a chocolate mint / sweet and sharp / each flavor balancing / the excess of the other / like we used to do as people,” from Geneffa Jahan’s poem “Chocolate Mints,” I knew I had to revisit her delicious debut collection Spilling the Chai.

“Chocolate Mints,” like all the poems in this collection, uses food as a conduit to ask existential questions: how our cultural identities flavor our (mis)treatment in society, how complicated family histories echo in our present, and how the languages we grow up with can shape our understanding of life. What strikes me most about Jahan’s poetry is her play with language as both a poetic and therapeutic practice. Growing up in a multilingual, cross-cultural household, Jahan learned to speak a dialect entirely unique to her family, now wielding it as a tool to excavate emotional truths.

What I could say about this book would fill a seven-course meal, but instead I’ll leave you with an amuse-bouche to entice you to savor the collection yourself: the opening and closing lines from Jahan’s poem “Dizzy Means Banana,”* which showcase her stunning wordplay across languages:

“To my failing ears, chakkar and chakra sound the same / Chakkar the spinning of one’s head, crystals dislodged from the inner ear throwing the body off-kilter. // Chakra pronounced almost the same, a spinning of wheels within the body…//…In our house / dizzy meant banana, / and I could safely say I didn’t want one, / pale and raw, difficult to swallow / the texture of chalk / but easier to reject / than the / hand flying out / to tame my face.”

*“Pronounced “dizzy,” ndizi is the Swahili word for banana” (Jahan 4n2).

Dominic Loise

The Bondsman

The Bondsman is a new streaming show from horror production studio Blumhouse starring Kevin Bacon. The premise is similar to the television series Reaper or the movie RIPD, where the main character, here the recently deceased bounty hunter Hub Halloran, now collects escaped souls from Hell on Earth for The Devil. 

Hell works on a pyramid scheme for collecting souls and communicates via analog fax machines. Also, the episodes are incredibly binge-able as they flow into each other like chapters in a book. And the strength of The Bondsman is the bigger story it tells is Hub’s estrangment from family and whether he’ll be able to make amends with them.

Speaking of Hub’s family, a special shout out to Beth Grant, who plays his mother. I have been excited every time she has been in something ever since I saw her in Donnie Darko. Grant delivers an amazing performance as someone who both taught her son the bounty hunter business yet feels she failed him as a mother since he went to Hell when he died. 

Ari Iscariot

Mickey 17

So… Mickey 17. The trailer was weird, the advertising was weird, and the vibe was weird overall. But is it the kind of weird you wanna watch? Keeping vague on the plot details, allow me the honor of making my case through the acting, the characters, the color palette, and the messaging.

Throughout his career, Robert Pattinson seems to be building a repertoire of playing weird little guys. And Mickey, our protagonist, is a weird little guy. Fun weird. Put him under a microscope and do experiments on him weird. (Ironically, the same attitude pretty much everyone else in the movie has towards him, as Mickey is a disposable clone that can be replicated endlessly.) Flexing his weird little guy skills, Pattinson delivers a mind-boggling performance as two identical characters, the likes of which I haven’t seen since Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap. The distinctions between the two versions of Mickey are so clearly delineated: down to body language, personality, voice, line delivery, etc., that you have to actively remind yourself Pattinson doesn’t have a clone in real life.

In contrast to Robert Pattinson’s one man circus, we have Mickey’s partner, Nasha, played by Naomi Ackie. She perfectly compliments the pathetic, scraggly, wet-cat energy Pattinson exudes with her blunt confidence and care. One of the things I love about this dynamic is that Nasha is the rock in Mickey’s life. She’s the protector; she’s the brash, outspoken one; she’s the one ready to pick up arms and fight everyone to the death to make sure her poor little meow meow isn’t being abused. It’s a very delicious subversion of heteropatriarchal gender roles. (She also wants to fuck both clone versions of Mickey at the same time, and the movie does not slut shame her for this. It’s like Yeah. Obviously you would want to fuck two versions of Robert Pattinson. Wouldn’t we all? And I applaud them for saying that with their whole chests out.)

We also have Mark Ruffalo playing one of the villains. A perfectly creepy sleaze, his depiction of the politician Kenneth Marshall obviously apes the mannerisms and behavior of Trump and Musk. (And also, strangely, incorporates a heaping dollop of Marlon Brando’s The Godfather.) Suffice to say, Mark Ruffalo was having a grand old time playing the egomaniacal, narcissistic patriarch and you can feel the sheer joy he’s taking in the blatant mockery of the current state of politics.

To the point of color, there’s a lot of grays and off-whites in this movie as a consequence of the dominant setting being a futuristic, dystopian-esque spaceship. The lower-class members of the spaceship mostly exist in these spaces, devoid of coloring in gray or black jumpsuits, or washed out by white lab coats. In contrast, the rich characters’ clothes are very colorful and their spaces are glaringly opulent. But even in the lower class areas that Mickey, Nasha, and the rest of the crew populate, we still have lighting that is often vibrant and tonally poignant. (At one point, I turned to my partner and I was like Hey, I know I said this in the last movie we watched together but honestly, people don’t use yellow lighting enough and it’s really good in this movie. And she was like Haha. Yeah, I wonder if it’s the same guy who directed the last movie. Spoilers, it was the same guy. The cinematographer for Snowpiercer is not the cinematographer for Mickey 17, so I think this particular brand of yellow lighting is just Bong Joon Ho’s thing. Wild to be able to recognize a guy by the colors he uses in his films.) Anyway, the film has excellent environmental storytelling through color and costuming that rewards those who pay attention to those details.

Finally, and most importantly, this was a movie with a very satisfying ending. In an industry that seems ever more focused on fast-paced action, big displays of grandiose (and shitty) CGI, or high octane emotions without any impactful character arcs or messaging, a well-rounded plot is extremely refreshing. The recurring plot points in the film are built upon and resolved and Mickey’s personal arc and struggle are compassionately and directly addressed in a way that, once again, rewards the audience for their attention.

In conclusion, is Mickey 17 a weird movie? Yes. Is it going to be for everyone? No. But if you’re looking for a strange, heartfelt sci-fi romp that wraps up everything neatly and sweetly in a bow, has an incredibly diverse and colorful cast of characters, and keeps you interested for every single second that it’s playing, Mickey 17 is for you.

Each eccentric face that peered into hers had a tale written on it; locked away and hidden behind its owner’s expressions.

The nightclub, termed “Dearly Departed,” was brimming with chronicles of history, and Ophelia was interested in every single one. There was not a thing these strangers shared, except that Death came for them all.

Experiences with the living were treasured, and people’s narratives were remarkable, especially now that they would never encounter another living being again. This was the currency here. Tell a secret and be admitted into the club. Have no secrets to tell, or no secrets you wish to share, and remain excluded.

The music was a mix of nostalgia and absurdity. There were heartbeats woven into the notes, breaths integrated into the chords. It was so distinctly alive, yet they were anything but. The strangers were dancing discordantly, each one hearing their own beat, their past life. Some moved with melancholy, as though something was weighing them down, while others danced without inhibition, arms moving wildly and bodies twisting.

It was abnormally cold down there. The kind of temperature that would have them hiding under the covers, with a warm drink, cuddled with a loved one when they were alive. But now, the chill remains only as a nuance of the dead.

Ophelia was standing by the bar, watching the man with bones instead of flesh as he mixed various concoctions, when suddenly a cold hand grasped her bare shoulder.

“You look familiar … did I know you back there?” The voice is soft and melodic, and Ophelia almost instinctively relaxes.

The question causes her to pause and think. Ophelia doesn’t know what to say. Did she know her up there? Her life past now seems so far away, and things are starting to seem fuzzy. She glances at the woman, who is waiting expectantly.

“I’m … not so sure.” She replies, voice quiet and reserved. The woman in front of her looks as though she had lived a life complete. Her head full of gray hair, her face crinkled with eyes so full of wisdom. Ophelia suddenly decides even if she did not know this woman, she would like to get to know her.

The woman is still staring at her, the hand once placed on Ophelia’s shoulder now at her side, fingers clenched into a fist. Her ring finger displays a golden ring that glimmers beautifully under the beaming lights.

“I am Gertrude.” She says, introducing herself.

Ophelia nods and smiles, introducing herself and shaking the old lady’s hand. There’s a shine in Gertrude’s eyes, and the younger woman knows the story she has to tell will be legendary.

She’s staring at her with a faraway look in her eyes. “Ophelia,” she mutters. “That was my daughter’s name.”

I was still wearing the same pajamas I had on when they stole from me. 

Just a t-shirt and bottoms. 

Nothing special.

The neon pink light of the club beckoned me, whispering promises of a haven, where the fallen could finally be laid to rest. 

Inside, women clustered into small orbits, their voices hushed like a child’s lullaby. It wasn’t like the usual nightclubs I frequented—you know, the ones where pulsing blue strobe lights illuminated intoxicated bodies, illuminating the wild, the wicked, the darkest parts of man. 

Here, no one danced. No one laughed. The air was thick with screams unheard.

I made my way to the bar and leaned in.

“Sorry,” the bartender murmured under her breath. “Non-alcoholic drinks only.”

Her eyes roamed my face, sweeping over me before settling on the dried blood staining my sleeve.

“This your first?” she asked in a low voice. 

I nodded imperceptibly, glancing around to make sure the shadows weren’t listening.  

I tilted my chin towards her. “You?”

Her mouth was drawn into a tight line, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then softly, bitterly, “Second. But this time he finally went through with it.”

Her words seeped into my bones, rattling the cage that once held my soul. 

And then, from somewhere behind me—

“He spiked my drink.”

A pause.

“—left me on the side of the road.”

A whisper, barely more than a breath.

“I didn’t even know him.”

We gathered closer, stories slipping between us like a secret language, binding our fates together.

And then the door opened. A child entered the room. She couldn’t have been more than four or five, her Ariel dress trailing behind her, the pink sequins catching the neon light.

She was too young for this place. 

But innocence had never protected any of us. 

The people who stayed took it harder than the people who left. Those going could always return: if things didn’t work out in Float, they could have a fresh start on Earth. Wait half a year, and it would be a whole new planet—about a decade passed for every month gone. For those who stayed, the departure was just another death.

Minnie was a rare case: traveling alone. Few boarded the shuttle to Float without someone acting as a witness to who they’d been before. She savored the relative solitude of the trip, knowing on arrival she’d be installed in one of the living-housing communities. She’d chosen the Single Moms Clan, thinking some extra help would be welcomed, even if she didn’t quite match the Ideal Candidate description.

Her first look at Float was disappointing. The town mimicked Earth exactly, and Minnie felt like her Earth self exactly. Still, she smiled at Frida, her Clan Representative, who hugged her over the baby strapped to her chest. The sight made Minnie worry about dribbling milk, even though she’d dried up long before during the weeks on the shuttle. Frida acquainted Minnie with her Float responsibilities, only one of which caused Minnie chagrin: Dating-Pool Party Attendance. It was mandatory for unpartnered Floaters, but Frida assured her they were almost fun.

The DPP Organization Committee, ostensibly to increase the chance of population growth, threw themed parties, retrofitting the storage unit assigned to them into a new sort of date night each month. A seedy bar, complete with a sticky floor. A movie theater, minus the movie, popcorn inexplicably pressed into the recliner cushions. A downtown rave, with lights clipping every which way and too-loud music meant to draw people closer, into pheromone-range, if they wanted to be heard.

There, she met Nick, who had a mustache, who could somehow make a black t-shirt and jeans look pretentious. They would get drinks together. They developed a teasing sort of rapport, and their hours together would slip by, as quickly as Earth-time.

One day, they were laughing and joking and singing song lyrics at each other as a discotheque mirror ball orbited above them. Other single Floaters tried out the supplied rollerblades as pinks and blues strobed across Nick’s face. He belted out an old Earth song from their youth. “Hey-ey-ey baby, won’t you have my bay-ay-ay-ayby.” A strange sense of de ja vu: She’d somehow swirled back to the very moment that always undid her, where she would forget high risk had anything to do with her, where she’d misbelieve one more try would be enough to get it right—just one more try, and she’d show the little stone there was more to this world than sinking. Except this time, even the hope had turned rancid. Her old fashion tasted only of its bitters. The party was over.

Minnie boarded the next shuttle for Earth without telling a single soul.

“Excuse me,” Ted said as he squeezed through yet another pair of conjoined twins on his path toward the burly bouncer. It was slightly unnerving how many conjoined twins stood in line for the nightclub.

Unfortunately for him, this pair wasn’t as congenial as the others he passed.

“Hey, we were here first,” the lankier twin spat at him, moving to close the gap between Ted and the next person ahead. His brother nodded in support.

Ted couldn’t risk starting an argument. He was about ten people away from reaching the entrance of the pulsing nightclub. He could clearly spot the velvet rope and the six-foot, hooded bouncer who barely let a single soul into the club.

Ted glanced over the twins’ shoulders. Millions of heads glared back at him. Just twenty-million more heads down was his spot in line.

When Ted first found out that he was dead, his initial thought was: at least this is better than being stuck in that bed.

Ted’s body had been rotting in the same hospital bed for the past month. He had first arrived able-bodied with a mild fever. Now, his human body was trapped in a coma, and his only options were either waiting in the back of a line to what appeared to be a nightclub heaven or waiting in a hospital bed of hell. It was laughable how slim his options were. The first thing Ted was going to do when he got into that nightclub was ask for the manager. He had a few questions, concerns, and complaints about Mr. G-O-D.

Ted  held a finger up to the lanky twin. “Hang on to that thought for just a sec.” Ted didn’t bother waiting for their reply as he quickly slipped around them.

The nightclub’s looming doorway and echoing music welcomed him as he neared the entrance. On his way up, Ted had pondered what this moment would be like and what he would finally say to this emblematic bouncer. But when Ted finally approached, all his words left him.

“Um. Hi,” He finally said. “Can I…go in?”

For a long time, there was silence. Ted was sure he was going to be manhandled back down to the end of the line.

Then, the bouncer finally spoke. “Once you’re in, you ain’t coming back out.”

As Ted stared at the long arched doors and golden lights seeping through the cracks, he felt an incredible warmth. An inviting embrace that whispered Come on in, Ted. You don’t have to wait any longer.

It was both scary and comforting. But Ted was ready.

Then, a sharp pull at his spirit yanked Ted into a white tunnel.

Piercing fluorescent lights invaded his vision, and as he blinked and gathered his surroundings, he could barely discern the face in his peripheral vision. But Ted didn’t need a clear vision to sense he was back to square zero.

“He’s alive!” Someone shouted.

Goddamnit.

Sara Santistevan

A Council of Dolls

It’s such a rare treat to be so hypnotized by a book that the world fades around you. That was my experience reading Mona Susan Power’s novel A Council of Dolls. I love when writers of color use experimental or speculative fiction to grapple with the horrors of historical and generational trauma. The speculative elements in A Council of Dolls are executed so seamlessly into the narrative I found myself questioning whether they even were speculative.

The narrative begins in the 1960s, following the story of Sissy, a young Dakota girl growing up in Chicago, and her unique friendship with her doll. It seems like any other story capturing the unique world of childhood, where imaginary friends can often take the form of objects. However, the line between childhood imagination and generational magic becomes blurred when the narrative travels back to tell the story of her mother and grandmother and their relationship with dolls who seems to hold the same memories and knowledge as Sissy’s doll. The doll’s surviving spirit is a beautiful metaphor that has kept me spellbound long after finishing this book.

A gorgeous yet heartbreaking matrilineal tale highlighting the crucial role women’s hope and strength plays in keeping cultures alive, I recommend A Council of Dolls to any reader who loves speculative fiction—and its unique power to unveil hidden pasts and re-imagine a more just present and future. 

Dominic Loise

Daredevil: Born Again

Before starting Daredevil: Born Again on Disney+, I went back to refresh myself on what happened during the last season of Daredevil for Netflix, which ended in 2018. Ironically, the 2018 season of Daredevil already told Frank Miller’s classic comic book Born Again storyline. 

The 1986 comic book saw Frank Miller return to write the character Daredevil with art by David Mazzucchelli. At the same time, Miller was writing and drawing The Dark Knight Returns for DC Comics. These two works of Miller’s comics along with Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons The Watchmen set a benchmark for reality-based comic books or what would be known as the Grim N’ Gritty Era. 

Like the comic book story, the last season of the Netflix’s Daredevil focuses on a hero beaten by a villain so severely they don’t get back up for the fight in the next issue. The Kingpin/Wilson Fisk is so many moves ahead of Daredevil/Matt Murdock it takes a multiple issue storyline for the hero to recover.

The television series addresses mental health and addiction like the original comic and it stresses the importance of community. It is Murdock’s core support system who give him a safe space to rediscover himself and heal mentally and physically from the events of season two. It is also his friends that remind him the way to take down a Kingpin is not as a vigilante stepping over a line but through established public systems like the court of law and the freedom of the press. 

Marizel Malan

Sunday (1994)

I have not been able to stop listening to the indie trio Sunday (1994). Since stumbling upon them, their songs have been ruling all my playlists, and their debut album has been on repeat for days at a time. Their self-titled album, Sunday (1994), released in 2024, is a no-skip from start to finish.

Paige Turner, lead vocalist, and Lee Newell, her partner and the band’s lead guitarist, wrote and recorded most of their first single—the incredible song “Tired Boy”—from their one bedroom apartment. Soon after, they recruited their mysterious drummer “X,” whose sound suited the duo’s vision and vibe perfectly. The three created an incredible album that speaks about turning points, finding love and having it find you, and the internal struggles people face.

If any of their songs encapsulates all of these notions, it would be my personal favorite “TV Car Chase.” It’s the song that drew me to the band in the first place, and certainly the one I listen to the most. A close second is “Blossom,” another beautifully written and composed song. With a strong introduction to the band, I had no doubt their album would be incredible from start to finish. With the release of a new single “Doomsday,” this is the perfect time to get into the band. If you need a reminder of the magic to be found in every part of your daily life, lyrics that tell incredible stories, and some melancholy vibes to boot, you should absolutely check out Sunday (1994)!

We didn’t feel it. I asked around, and everyone said the same thing: “I was alive until I wasn’t.” 

No one knows what happened. Before it was lights-out, there was talk of war, the oceans were getting too acidic, and all kinds of sea creatures were washing onto shores. Most said it had something to do with war, others global warming—and some said the Apocalypse, like in Revelations. I guess that means we got left behind.  

I don’t think it was a nuke or acidic oceans or the coming of Christ. I think someone stole the sun.  

I saw a pair of eyes in the sky. Have you ever looked into a fish bowl as a kid? That’s what it felt like, except I was the fish. And I had just died suddenly in my tank. Sometimes, I think we’re in a fishbowl or marble or something small and vulnerable, somewhere big and curious, where giant eyes belong to giant bodies with giant hands that can steal the sun just because they feel like it.  

Everything is a ghost now, even cockroaches. The plants are all dead, too, but they don’t seem to have ghosts. Some people are in denial, refusing to believe what’s right in front of them. They still try to go through life as it was before. As ghosts, we can’t move anything in the physical world. 

I haunt the beaches, far away from the cities and towns, with Dirk and Ginny Russo. They were married before all this, but marriage doesn’t matter at the end of the world. They agree something stole the sun. It’s the most obvious conclusion because when we all… well… died, we didn’t see the sun again. We haunt the planet in an eternal night. I am surprised no one else has thought about it. I guess they’re too concerned with the politics of life after death: who gets to haunt what, and who’s right about how the world ended, and is there a God?  

Ginny thought it would be a good idea to meet more lost souls and show them the pair of eyes. Here, the endless sea meets the endless sky, with no distractions or politics.  

“It’ll be like a party! Oh! Remember nightclubs? We’ll have a beach club!” She had said.  

I was never a fan of clubs or people. But there was a part of me that wanted everyone to know the eyes that watched us in our tank. 

When our beach filled up with ghosts and it got quiet, I said, “Look up.” Their translucent heads rose to view the stars and the moon and the faint shadow of a pair of eyes.  

I heard voices murmur things like “God.” Most pretended it wasn’t there. Others claimed they had explanations. Some started religions because of it.  

I didn’t pretend to know what the eyes were, but I still think they’re responsible for stealing the sun. 

Marlene stands with her back to the bar because her miniskirt won’t zip. She can feel the place just below her waist where the metal teeth split into a y, the clasp digging. Dead, and still trying to suck it in. Dead, and still caring what size she is. Well, maybe the real question is: Why is she any size at all now? She takes a sip from the amber-colored liquid in her glass–Paper Plane–maybe the last thing she drank before she…? Maybe the first? Briefly panics that she can’t remember and wonders if she’s already losing herself, a losing that happens slow and then all at once. But then, it comes to her.

Amaretto sour.

Takes another sip and frowns, the taste of rye shifting to the taste of almond. Strange place, the afterlife.

 Makes her uneasy. Makes her distrustful.

The dance floor looks like it’s bathed in navy velvet from the moonlight, white folds and fuzzed shadow sheen. Bodies sway. A disco ball descends and then it’s all Donna Summers and Madonna, and she wonders if they pick the music based on which generation is in the majority. It does not make her want to dance, so she drinks instead.

There’s another woman at the bar, much older, with gray ringlets. Her dress, Marlene notices, is zipped up to mid back.

“I hear it doesn’t count when you’re dead,” this mystery woman says.

“What doesn’t?”

She raises her eyebrows, nods at someone young, probably one of the 27s in his wide-legged pants, lurking at the edge of the dance floor. He doesn’t know how to move to the music and instead of endearing, it just makes Marlene feel old. Sad.

“Not for me,” Marlene says, and the woman shimmies off.

She looks down at her glass, thick and beveled with rounded lumps. At her hand wrapped around it. There’s a ring there and she remembers when Dave gave it to her, on the pier in Santa Monica. Hears the waves crash and a seagull and there’s something close to a keening in her chest, something she can’t verbalize. She looks for the exit.

“Who makes a nightclub without exits?” she says to herself.

The claustrophobia sets into her bones, the back of her molars. She notices the rising temperature escaping in steam off the not-yet-cold bodies, pressed together.

Thinks that even now, especially now, her ideal night out would be rotting on the couch, Dave’s feet set on her lap, or his head pressed against her arm. She presses it then against the bar but it’s too hard, too cold, too solid. Remembers, briefly, a fairytale about shoes danced to pieces. The music switches to something older, something Cohen. It’s brief, his croon, because then an alarm sounds, rain prickling across her skin.

The sprinklers, she thinks.

Health and safety, she thinks.

Water streams over her eyelids, blurring vision, and she wonders,

Where can we even go from here?