The knife in my inner jacket pocket grounds me.

The excitement of the inauguration started twenty minutes ago, and now the bustle of oohs and ahhs is making my skin crawl.

“Over many, many centuries, we have been attacked, plundered, and maimed.”

I follow the clicks of heels while necks strain to marvel at every nook of the vast garden leading up to the Extinction Museum of Humanity.

She adds, as an afterthought, “Internally and externally,” but continues her upbeat sermon. The group follows the guide up the marble stairs towards the doors that I have memorized every ridge of. I trace the patterns on the hilt, calming myself. A breath in at every curve and one out at every slide.

Grand doors, marble and gold, for a grand opening.A grand opening for a historic erasure.

Patience, I chide myself, they want to celebrate the end, then we give them a worthy one.

“Despite the pains we have faced, we survived,” her voice booming a few steps above me, pulls me out of my head. “People lived and died for causes greater than themselves, and this,” her outstretched arms wildly gesture, “is a humble ode to them.”

On cue, the red ribbons untie themselves, and the doors open. She graciously steps aside to let her gawking entourage in first, but I couldn’t move when I saw it from out here. In the middle of a room full of loot and appropriated histories stood the Kalpavriksham, the last of the trees of life of any tribe. Oceans away from my village of elders and children, who think trees are as mythical as superheroes, our deity is rooted in unsuited soil, with a plaque drilled into it.

That alone boils my blood enough to walk past the painting deemed culturally significant enough for the people here. Our trees were rooted with the birth of every child, both spoiled and cherished the same, or so I hear.

Amma told us in a daze. First, they said we didn’t deserve to name our gods, then they took our lands and sometime later, our votes too. Our forests would be protected, they promised.
What’s in a name if we know who we are?

The ventilation was a cruel imitation of the wind. It carried the falling leaves all over the room, the fragrance of the dying tree stronger as I neared it. My vision blurred, but I needed to read the plaque. A last opportunity to earn forgiveness; to stop me.

A generous donation from the personal collection of the Hawthorn estate.
My Appupan taught me a childhood rhyme on a June evening.

100 years it stood, 100 years it sustained, 100 more the Kalpavriksham will live.
When it falls, it will nurture still. An end worth waiting for.

I bow my head for the first and last time and turn toward the painting with the knife in hand.

How do I tell Claudia I’m bored and want to leave the Extinction Museum? Em typed.

They could always pull up the images on CHATTERBOX to learn about this junk. And it’d be more enjoyable than knocking elbows with museum patrons to read dusty plaques.

Pixels blurred into words before Em lifted her finger from the phone.

Great question, Em—you’ll want to approach this carefully to not offend Claudia. Below are three suggestions you could try. I can also help you write…

The tap tap of museum patrons silently messaging each other through CHATTERBOX and the pattering of acid rain against the glass walls filled the cavernous space.

Em watched her little sister; Claudia’s freckled face reflected in the rim of a … Em read the sign. Car. Deadly mode of transportation responsible for 9,999,999—Em skimmed ahead—deaths prior to the Universal Transit System created by The Founders.

Em selected the “playful” tone CHATTERBOX suggested and hit send. 

Claudia’s phone flashed and her smile curved into a frown. She adjusted her hideous red duck-billed “baseball hat” before angrily typing.

At the museum’s grand opening, Claudia had begged Em to spend her precious cyber-coins to buy the hat from the museum’s “thrift/gift” shop, and now she insisted on wearing it every time they visited.

Em’s phone vibrated. If you’re bored, here are three recommendations…

When Em looked up, Claudia was ducking beneath the velvet rope leading to a new exhibit: Communication of the 21^st & 22^nd Century: COMING SOON. Her hat hit the marble floor, but she marched on.

Great. The last thing they needed was a mark on their citizen reports for trespassing at this stupid museum.

Em rescued the dumb hat and raced after Claudia.

Only a few feet into the exhibit, darkness swallowed her. She passed blinking red lights and colossal screens, her footsteps echoing.

Ahead, a lamp shone with soft yellow light, revealing a vinyl booth, ensconced into a glass box with the placard: Coffee Shop.

“Em,” a voice croaked.

Em screamed. Claudia hadn’t spoken since she was a babbling infant. Hell, Em couldn’t remember what her own voice sounded like. 

“It’s like from Mom and Dad’s picture,” Claudia said, her voice piercing to Em’s ears.

“Stop,” Em whispered. The word grated against her throat. She tasted the iron tang of blood.

“We can talk,” Claudia said, exasperated. “We’re alone.”

“They banned—”

Behind them, a robotic voice buzzed, “Props out of place. Returning now.”

---

Em sat across from Claudia in the squeaky coffee shop booth with empty ceramic mugs glued to the tabletop.

When a patron pressed the button, electricity blasted the girls’ backs like jacuzzi jets, their painful cue to demonstrate face-to-face communication.

Faces ogled them from the other side of the fingerprint smudged glass. Em never looked away, hoping, just once, to catch a glimmer of understanding.

I’m real.

She opened her mouth and spoke.

“What does extinct mean?” the rose-colored beetle asked, staring at the dead insects pinned to a display case. “Why are these individuals considered extinct?”

            Auguste looked up from his notebook and turned toward the beetle and the display case.

“Oh…” Auguste looked back at his notebook, jotting something down before shutting it. “Well, they are considered extinct because they are believed to have died off.” Auguste stood from his chair, letting out a groan as his joints popped.

            The rose-colored beetle stared at the pinned insects for a while longer. Auguste watched, one eyebrow raised with curiosity. It was strange for him; he had never spoken to an insect before. Nonetheless, he enjoyed answering the beetle’s questions about the world.

            “I’m sorry you saw them,” Auguste said after a silence. “I usually don’t keep them out, but my grandchildren had pleaded with me to show them my collection.”

            “Collection?” The rose-colored beetle turned around in its container, looking up at the man. “There are others?”

            Auguste stared at the beetle for a moment, uncertain as to how he should respond. “Well…”

            “How many are there?”

            “There are quite a few in my possession,” Auguste said hesitatingly. “Even more are kept at the museum where they are typically displayed for people to see.”

            The rose-colored beetle turned back to the case, once again silent, like it was pondering upon this knowledge. A part of Auguste wanted to comfort the small thing, but how could a human understand the struggles of an insect?

            “How will you label me once I’m gone?”

            “Based on what I know about your species, you will also be labeled as extinct once you’ve passed on.” Auguste scratched the backrest of his chair, uncomfortable with his answer. “We’ve tried finding more of your species, but…” Auguste didn’t feel the need to explain further.

            “What will come after?” The rose-colored beetle partially turned toward him. “What will happen to this world after I’m gone?”

            Auguste considered the beetle’s question as he stared at his collection of extinct insects, his mind wandering. What would happen to the world had the roles been reversed, had he been the one asking the beetle these questions?

            “Nothing,” Auguste said. “The world will forget about you and continue spinning for the rest of eternity. Other species will come along, and they will someday meet a similar fate to your own.”

            Once again the beetle fell silent, staring at Auguste with those small, black, beady eyes that lacked expression. After a few moments, it turned away from him, gazing at the display of extinct insects.

            “What a pitiful fate.”

Bea Basa

Yellowjackets

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

Often I am astonished at my perpetual ability to be late to the party. I read award-sweeping books months past their prime, listen to songs beyond their hype cycle. But none have made me lament this unfortunate talent more than Ashley Lyle and Bart Nickerson’s drama-thriller Yellowjackets.

It’s got girlhood. It’s got cannibalism. It’s got grimy 90’s alternative rock. It’s one of the best Lord of the Flies adaptations in modern media. Hell, it’s got Ella Purnell (of Arcane and Fallout fame). Realizing I’d missed out felt like a one-two punch; it feels practically tailor-made to my fictional interests. And once I finally started, I literally. Couldn’t. Stop.

In 1996, the Wiskayok High Yellowjackets are living deliciously. A fierce all-female team ready to wow the national stage. Nothing can stop them now. . . or so they think, until their plane suddenly crashes in the deep Canadian wilderness. What follows is a slow culmination of off-pitch drama, desperation for food, and the waning influence of a single surviving adult.  Therein lies the classic “Teenage Wasteland” trope: a descent into savagery to appease a wilderness deity that may or may not be hallucinatory. Twenty-five years later, the surviving Yellowjackets must deal with the resulting unresolved trauma and its consequences.

I can’t say anything else, and I mean anything else, about the plot for fear of spoilers. There’s an ample use of butterfly effect: every single action taken bites these girls in the ass. But the terrifying beauty of Yellowjackets, to me, is its overarching backdrop of girlhood. The Blood Hive episode in Season 1; the constant catty drama; the toxic, codependent, non-vaguely sapphic friendships. Even having parted ways as adults, the Yellowjackets inevitably reunite under one umbrella of their shared, fucked-up girlhood.

Oh, and the cannibalism, of course.

Nate Ragolia

The Outer Worlds 2

Back in 2019, The Outer Worlds broke onto the video game scene with a sci-fi, megacorporation-dominated, but still very cheeky reality offering gameplay that mixes vibes from Fallout and Skyrim. The Outer Worlds takes place in an alternate future where President McKinley wasn’t assassinated, Teddy Roosevelt never hit the scene, and no trust busting or anti-monopoly action ever took place.

The result is a society where companies like Auntie Cleo’s, Spacer’s Choice, and others battle for business supremacy and the loyalty of serf-like employee-citizens. The original game was fun, but lost a bit of steam as it progressed… Still, the aesthetic and satirical vibes, plus the genuinely fun skills and combat were enough for me to clamor when I heard about a sequel.

In 2025, The Outer Worlds 2 released and I have been loving playing the game since I picked it up in early 2026. The satire and silliness has been ratcheted up with this game taking place decades after the original. Following a corporate war, there is only one company left, and they are offering a unilateral capitalist solution to all problems. At the start, the cleverly named Auntie’s Choice is trying to takeover a planet once run by the authoritarian pseudo-communistic Protectorate.

The writing is more compelling in this installment, but it’s the combat and character customizations that add to the fun. Skills feel more meaningful and the many puzzles peppered around the open worlds you can explore have multiple solutions, entry points, and outcomes that make the game feel rich, rewarding, and genuinely deep. Characters are occasionally and randomly awarded flaws that permanently change the game (and you get to choose whether to accept them or not). And nothing in the world is completely static, with decisions having consequences that sometimes beckon you to reload and try again, if only to find out what happens if you say something different or approach a situation from a different angle. Oh, and the game looks beautiful, too.

If you’re looking for a fun, thought-provoking, engaging sci-fi escape from reality, The Outer Worlds 2 does it all. And you’ll probably end up having the Purpleberry Crunch theme song stuck in your head like I do, too.

Renee Sadler

Resident Evil Requiem

Unless you’ve been scavenging in the remains of Raccoon City for the last month, you’ve probably heard that Capcom released a new Resident Evil. And boy is Requiem a treat in my books.

If there is one thing you can count on from RE, it’s reinventing the zombie. Sometimes you get towering bioweapons who stalk you through the halls. Other times you get reanimated mold people that make me cry. The ninth main series title, Requiem, does an excellent job of keeping the zombies recognizable but fresh. Throughout the Care Center in the first third of the game, each zombie has its own personality and is a champion of environmental story telling. I wanted to explore every corner for clues about them even though I was losing-my-mind terrified.

But RE has always been more than survival horror. While I’ve seen complaints about the action overshadowing the scares, I find the “throw it at the wall and see what sticks” blend of blockbuster and horror charming. The game takes a hard turn into action-movie nonsense part way through and that’s part of why I love it. Requiem feels like a love letter to all the games before it, even the silly moments!

While it may not be the neatest entry point into the franchise, there is plenty for a new fan to get a kick out of. So go on! Give it a shot! I’ve beaten the game once so far and I can’t wait to dive back in!

Asma Al-Masyabi

The Amazing Digital Circus

Let me pitch this: A strange, 3D indie animated show that somehow marries the narrative layered depth and bright cartoony surface of Gravity Falls with the influential 1960s sci-fi horror short story I Have No Mouth and Cannot Scream.

The Amazing Digital Circus is available to watch on YouTube. With a little less than three months until the final episode comes out, this show that has been three years in the making has gotten me a bit obsessed.

My for-you page is filled with video essays and short animations about TADC, and I continue to annoy my brother (who graciously watched with me) with all of it.

The Amazing Digital Circus lured me in with bright color and goofy designs before it hit me over the head with emotional depth and characters whose struggles feel incredibly real—and relatable. Besides finding themselves in a digital world they cannot escape, in digital bodies that reflect their deepest insecurities and only hazy memories to remind them who they were, they are still learning how to be human—just like we all are.

There are mysteries and fun, showtunes and humor. Entry into the circus is a one-way ticket, so beware.

G.A.I.A.—Generative Artificial Intelligence… something (you weren’t sure what the second “A” stood for)—had failed to inform you of the impending weather, which you would have found irritating, had you the time to stop and ponder it.

As it was, you did not. You had worn your crisp leather jacket and suede boots—neither of which, the system wired to your cochlear implant vocalized into your auditory nerve, could withstand a dousing by the elements. Its need to go on to recommend finding shelter seemed rather condescending as well—you could see that perfectly fine yourself, thank you very much.

You looked up from the screen on your wrist you had been halfheartedly staring at, repeatedly reloading the email a language model had spat out for you because there was something not quite right about it, and realized you were alone on the street.

There was a building a few paces away from you, and you walked briskly towards it, trying to ignore the spots of water already appearing on your boots. Extinction Museum, the (physical!) sign over the awning proclaimed in a font you thought was intended to be vaguely reminiscent of the undefined past. A bright yellow banner—Grand Opening Today!—was hanging from one defiant string, half-blown down, and you sidestepped it to get to the door.

You just hoped there wasn’t an entrance fee.

As it turned out, this was not something you needed to concern yourself with, because you entered a vast atrium of a building that appeared to be quite old—maybe from the late 20th or early 21st century?—and completely deserted.

There was a large, crescent-shaped desk directly in front of you, with an ungainly computer perched precariously on the edge. Next to it was a cup holding old-timey writing implements, helpfully labelled “Pens.”

To the right of the desk was a room with a sign above the door proclaiming “Adult” and to the left, its mirror: “Children.”

Through the “Adult” doorway, the room was stacked with shelves, taller than you, the spaces between them quite narrow. And the shelves were full of…

Books, G.A.I.A. verbalized into your implant. You jumped. A learning and entertainment device that became obsolete due to bulk and environmental impact in the mid-21st century.

You reached out, running your hand along the smooth rectangular backs, which displayed the book’s titles, the system informed you. They were beautiful: pink and purple and blue with shiny embossed letters. In the background, you registered G.A.I.A. chirping details: the books’ titles and contents.

Suddenly, a wave of something akin to sadness washed over you: nostalgia, perhaps, for a time you never knew. And you reached up to your ear, your hand brushing the smooth surface of the implant, intending, for a moment, to switch the sound off, to gain a few moments of quiet in your head.

And you remembered you could not.

People love to pet animals, no matter how many signs we put up. Kids especially love the canids and big cats. They think they look like big pets. I always try to make it a teaching moment. “When you pet these pieces, you get oils and dirt from your skin on the piece, and that hurts them.”

“I thought the doggy was dead?”

“That’s true, but taxidermy doesn’t last forever, so we have to be careful. There aren’t any wolves left. We want these pieces to last a long time so as many people as possible can enjoy them.”

---

On Friday afternoon, a high school girl takes a box cutter to one of the wolves in the Grady Ellison North American Mammals exhibit, mutilating the beast in front of an elementary school tour. I hurry the crying kids out of the exhibit while the girl screams about capitalism and the Ellisons and the cities underwater: Boston, San Francisco, New York, Miami, New Orleans. She waves the box cutter in my face, and I wonder if she’ll cut me.

Eventually, the cops come to take her.

I’m taken up to see my boss’s boss, where she asks me a few questions. I worry I’m about to be fired, but she says, “Don’t worry. This wasn’t your fault. You did everything right.”

---

On the news, people with nice haircuts talk about the girl with the box cutter. They argue she’s bringing attention to an important issue. They argue she’s going about things all wrong and will only hurt her cause. They argue we still can’t prove global warming is manmade. They argue about how long the levees in Baltimore will hold.

A picture of me makes the news. People are calling me a hero for protecting those kids.

---

Next Friday, I’m the guest of honor at the unveiling of a new wolf piece. The museum even rents me a nice tux for the occasion. I get to shake hands with Jasper Ellison, Grady Ellison’s grandson, while a reporter takes our picture. “Pretty lucky you had another wolf to donate,” I say.

Jasper smiles at me like he’s about to let me in on a secret. “I got about two dozen of these things. Grandad loved animals. He was obsessed with getting all sorts of endangered species stuffed. He knew that once they were gone, these pieces would be all we’d have. They’re his legacy.”

“Two dozen?” I remember the box cutter.

“Two dozen wolves. But we’ve got about three hundred total pieces back at the ranch.”

---

That Saturday, I see a pair of young girls looking at the new wolf. I know from the look on their faces they’re going to touch it before they’ve reached out their hands. I won’t stop them; I won’t report the incident. There are two dozen locked away in a ranch in Texas. And I want to let them out.

Alina van den Berg

Yi Yi 

I finally got around to watching Edward Yang’s Yi Yi (2000) and now I’m kicking myself for not watching it sooner. It’s about a family in Taipei going about their lives and by the end of it you feel like you’re living life with them. 

It’s one of those observational movies that make you feel like you are overhearing a stranger’s conversation as you walk past or watching a couple fight on a balcony. At the same time, it’s homey and lived in, their apartment as familiar to me as my own grandma’s. The characters feel inherent to their setting, and they’re filmed in a way to highlight that. I really love when movies have a lot of wide shots. Better yet when the camera stays still and lingers, refusing to look away. Let me sit with these characters! Let me situate them! I want to feel this place!  

The film does this thing where sounds are constantly overlapping, not just as “background noise,” but genuine overlap. The sounds from the outside world—from their neighbors, from the street below—don’t disappear because there is an intimate conversation happening. Life around them continues, through disappointment, happiness, growing pains, love. A teenage girl has her heart broken while her father’s friends discuss financial investments in the other room.  

It’s a deeply earnest story and on top of it all, it’s beautiful to look at. I can’t stop thinking about it.

Anne Ramirez

Busy, Yet Pretty

I don’t typically spend my days listening to podcasts, as I tend to prefer music and audiobooks. However, Jadyn Hailey has captured my attention and won my heart with her optimism and motivation in her podcast, Busy, Yet Pretty. Lately, I’ve been spending my mornings and free time catching up on the episodes. 

This podcast is all about setting goals, improving personal habits, and creating a life you love to wake up to. I really appreciate her emphasis on balance and wellness rather than unreasonable productivity and “hustle culture.” The episodes are in bite-sized lengths, typically thirty minutes each, and they are filled with motivational words, tips for healthy productivity, reminders for self-love, and all kinds of other advice! Some of the episodes have truly changed my life, as they have helped me to overcome procrastination and negative self-talk, as well as realize some of my loftiest personal goals. The host is like a loving older sister who cheers for her siblings and pushes them toward success; her cheerful voice guides the listener toward positive thinking and hopeful ambition. Listening is like drinking a mental and emotional energy drink. 

If you’ve been wanting to improve your lifestyle and could use a mood booster for your morning routine or your commute, listening to Busy, Yet Pretty is a fun way to gain inspiration and create tangible, positive changes. 

Ewa Majewski 

When the Moon Hatched

Trusting BookTok for a recommendation is not for the faint of heart. It’s a gamble. A leap of faith. Occasionally, a mistake. But when I saw When the Moon Hatched by Sarah A. Parker was getting the hype it deserved, I thought: FINALLY. A good one.  

When I read the book in 2023—yeah, that is a long time ago, and I am still thinking about it—I was hoping the rest of the internet would catch up because I simply needed someone to talk about that ending.  

Set in a world shaped by fallen moons and dangerous elemental magic, the story follows a fiercely guarded heroine whose buried past and hidden power begin to collide with a brewing war. What unfolds is layered, romantic, brutal, and deeply emotional. 

Also, did I mention there are dragons! 

With the sequel, The Ballad of Falling Dragons, coming out in just a few months, now is the time to dive into this world of magic, love, and adventure before the spoilers start flying.  

And if you are still not convinced, here is one of my (many) favorite quotes from the book: 

“Chase death, Moonbeam. And I pray your bloodlust brings you the same sense of peace I feel just knowing you exist.”   

Pratyusha P.

My Lady Jane

If you are, like me, spiritually attached to messy historical women and lightly unhinged court politics, please allow me to introduce you to My Lady Jane. 

Loosely inspired by Lady Jane Grey, the show asks: what if Tudor England were chaotic, magical, and slightly feral? What if political betrayal came with sword fights, slow-burn yearning, and a husband who occasionally turns into a horse? Yes. A horse. And trust me, it works. 

What makes My Lady Jane so electric is its audacity. It treats history less like a sacred text and more like a sandbox. The narration is cheeky, deliciously blends courtly intrigue with modern wit, and Jane herself is everything you want from a heroine—bookish, sharp-tongued, stubborn, and deeply unwilling to go quietly to the scaffold. 

It’s funny. It’s swoony. It’s camp. And beneath all the glitter and galloping chaos, there’s something earnest: a girl refusing to be a tragic footnote. 

Which makes it all the more devastating that it was cancelled after ONE season. If you haven’t watched it yet, consider this both a recommendation and a eulogy. 

Renee Sadler

The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance

With the Muppets getting new attention due to the Sabrina Carpenter Special, I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about—and rewatching—my personal favorite Jim Henson project, The Dark Crystal. Specifically, The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance. 

The Dark Crystal breaks the mold of Henson’s other works, it’s not bright and fluffy like Muppets and Sesame Street. In this project, Henson was exploring something darker. Something raw. The movie explores a post-genocide world with no human actors. Every character is a detailed, realistically-rendered fantasy puppet. With expert storytelling and deep emotion, Henson creates a world completely alien from our own while still reflecting our own dark qualities. 

When it comes to Netflix’s TDC: Age of Resistance, I can’t think of a single other prequel that takes the source material and builds on it in such a faithful and expansive way. The show introduces various clans, building out the mythology and various cultures of Thra. Since it is a prequel, we know all is lost, yet find ourselves hopeful for the main characters and rooting for each small victory. 

I’ll always be hurt that this story ended prematurely; the phenomenal sets and puppets left to collect dust. But I think it’s important to revisit this story even with its uncertain conclusion. This resistance of the small—of which there are many—against the powerful—of which there are few.   

Also, who doesn’t love a Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas style duo of queer-coded hermits.  

Hello Emily, thank you for joining me today to talk about your recent book, Mythica (also known as Penelope’s Bones in the US). I’m particularly thrilled to be chatting to you because Homer’s epics have a special place in my heart—my Greek Cypriot dad told me and my sister these epics as our bedtime stories growing up. Could you start by giving us a sense of what this book is?

The first layer, the one you’ll interact most with in the book, is recovering the real women behind Homer’s myths. When we’re talking about Homer, we mean the epics of The Iliad—which tells a section of the saga of the Trojan War—and The Odyssey—which focuses on one of the war hero’s voyages home. Both of these epics are very male-centered, so the question of the book was: how can we bring the women of these stories into the foreground? Women like Penelope, the wife of Odysseus, or Helen of Troy, whose seizure from Sparta by Paris initiates the entire Trojan War. These are important women, women who are complex and can be fleshed out in interesting ways, but they are often marginalized and silenced. So the book is basically saying, instead of starting with the women in the myths—which are from a resolutely male tradition, handed down by male bards, and constructed for male audiences about male themes—what if we started with the women through history? What if we looked at real historical women from the period that fed into Homer’s vision of this long-lost age, looked at their experiences and what we are uncovering from their bones, from their DNA, from the artifacts they were engaging with? How might this then make us read Homer differently?

For me, that was kind of a revolution. I think critics or historians often start from the wrong end, with the accounts written by men within the system used to shore up messages about what it was to be a man. So instead, I put that to one side and started with the archaeology and therefore with the reality—as far as we can uncover it—of these women’s experiences. Then we can loop back around and ask, how does that change how we read the myths?

Secondly, in foregrounding the discoveries that are helping us to uncover these women, it was particularly important to recognize the women who have had a hand in this work. We’ve been talking about the silencing and the marginalization of these women of legend, but there are a lot of women scholars, excavators, archaeologists, and translators who have also been pushed to the sidelines. So, this is both a story about the past and the present.

So what was the spark that began your journey to write this book?

I have an interdisciplinary background in that I published three novels, Greek myth retellings, and I was writing those at the same time as I was doing a PhD in Classics in the US. So the spark with this book was thinking, I know I want to write something about women in Homer but instead of saying, this is an academic book or this is a public book, I could say, actually I’m bringing together critical analysis, historical understanding, archaeological reports, but also narrative storytelling. So really it was a culmination of all the different ways of thinking I’d been doing over the years.

The breadth of the book is remarkable—there’s archaeology, anthropology, DNA analysis, literature, mythology. You move through nine women from The Iliad, seven from The Odyssey. What was the research process like? And how did it go from being all these disparate pieces into something coherent?

For me, it was not about including these women in my book because they’re in Homer, but instead because they each have something to tell us about the experience of being a woman.

I really wanted the historical experiences of women to be my starting point. So my first port of call was to comb through all the archaeological reports I could find across the Late Bronze Age—the period that I decided to focus on, roughly 13^th to 12^th century BCE. I wanted to delve into different experiences from different kinds of women—so we’re not looking entirely at elite women, but we’re also looking at non-elites—and I was also really interested in showcasing a variety of technologies, approaches, and disciplines.

Then I looked at my list of Homer’s women. How can I start to weave these together? I felt almost like the Muses were watching over me, because there were all these correspondences that I could never have planned. The one that really stuck out was the Uluburun Shipwreck. I’d known for ages that I wanted to write about it not only because it’s an amazing underwater excavation but also because it foregrounds the techniques that incredible marine archaeologists use. As a Late Bronze Age shipwreck, I knew it would enable me to speak to issues of trade, and that then made me think about xenia—”guest friendship”—in The Odyssey. This brought Arete to mind, queen of the mythical Phaenicians and a key demonstrator of xenia. Then I was looking through what was discovered on the ship, and I couldn’t believe it: one of the most valuable objects was a single gold chalice, precisely the object that is given to Odysseus by Arete’s husband, the king. I just could not have planned that, the confluences were extraordinary.

How did you come up with the order? Did you grapple with it at all?

The idea was that the ordering of the women would create another subliminal layer. Though I start each chapter with the archaeology and historical context, I then move to the Homeric narrative and give a summary of where we’re at in the epic so as a reader you are essentially getting a summary of The Iliad and The Odyssey narrated through the women. So though people might not notice, the women are now our introduction to the epics.

I’d be absolutely fascinated to see if someone who, never having read Homer, read your book first and then went to Homer, and how that might change the entire framing. Is there a particular woman who was your favorite to write?

Well, it is difficult to pick, but I think the one that stood out for me the most was Thetis, the mother. I had recently become a mother myself, and so I was re-reading The Iliad with a completely different eye than before. In her chapter, I write about the part in The Iliad where Thetis talks about her motherhood, where she comes up with this word which we call, in Classics, a hapax legomenon, which means a “once said.” She makes up this word, and no one ever uses it again in any text, so it’s her word. The word is dusaristotokeia, which means “the worst-best-female-birther.” To unpack that, it conveys how it feels as a woman to go through an experience that can sometimes, for some women, be the worst of their life. In Thetis’s case, it’s certainly the worst of her life because as an immortal mother giving birth to a mortal child, Achilles, she knows she’s going to lose her child, which is the worst thing a mother can experience. But the birth is simultaneously the best thing, because it has brought into the world the thing that is the most precious to her.

So, this led me to think, how can we re-evaluate ancient burials and attitudes to infant deaths? In the past, male-authored, archaeological scholarship took an impassive approach to it: there were so many infant burials that the assumption is people were just used to it. But when instead you read with an attitude of empathy, you wonder, can we read this differently? We notice that, for instance, some of the infants are buried under the floor of a house, or they’re buried with specifically made objects, like a sippy cup that a family of potters made in Late Bronze Age Mycenae. So if we read with that empathy, I think it makes us see the care with which these lost children were being treated. Weaving that together was a pretty cathartic experience for me.

This leads me to wonder if there was any one woman who you found particularly surprising or unexpected?

The surprising one would have to be Calypso. I knew that Calypso had always posed a problem for me. The way she is talked about in The Odyssey and in criticism is always as a blocker of Odysseus. That had always really bugged me. But I couldn’t think of a response, because the narrative is that she gets in the way of Odysseus getting home as he’s kept captive on her island for seven years. There’s a really interesting moment where the poet of The Odyssey and Odysseus himself echo each other by using the same vocabulary, with the poet saying “Odysseus had been kept captive by Calypso,” and then later Odysseus says, “Calypso kept me captive,” using the same words. So, there’s a sort of double blaming of Calypso. It’s something that scholars tend to repeat and I couldn’t put my finger on how I could create a rebuttal.

The answer came, again, by starting with the history. As I was doing research into ancient weaving, I realized that one of the most exciting things being done now is experimental archaeology: where scholars basically recreate the tools that were used by ancient women weavers and then do the weaving itself. And what that does for us is gives us a sense of time. The technology of weaving has always been emphasized, but time wasn’t really something that was talked about. But the average estimate, based on the latest findings, is that women spent about ten hours a day spinning and weaving. And then I came across a statistic that it would have taken one woman roughly four years to make just one sail. Suddenly I realized, this is the rebuttal: considering Calypso through the work she was doing. She’s not just a temptress luring Odysseus with sex. That’s what the poem is telling us, that’s what the man is telling us, but it’s not what she’s doing. What she’s doing for most of the day every day is spinning and weaving a sail.

I love that. In that same chapter, you draw the concept together with our consumption of fast fashion nowadays, and how one in six people alive are involved in that industry in some form and most of them are women.

Exactly. Eighty per cent of the global textile labor is female. I really wanted to get across that this isn’t just an ancient story. You see patterns repeating. This means that we can argue that this is not just a poem about the past, we can also refract it into modern concerns.

I was really struck by the breadth of locations too. Your book is a wondrous tangle of different cultures. I wondered if your perceptions of place might have changed by looking through the lens of the women?

One of the most interesting things for me was to think about women’s experiences beyond Greece. This wasn’t something that I had any expertise in before. I knew about as much as we can know about Mycenaean women, but to start discovering women from, for example, the Hittite Empire in Anatolia and what they were doing, to start reading their texts, that was not only really exciting but also it challenged me to consider the boundaries that we put on history. There’s a quote from Raymond Westbrook—he says something akin to “the ancient legal tradition of Mesopotamia did not stop dead at the shores of the Aegean.” It’s such a testament to the way that later thinkers and historians have put time periods and cultures and civilizations into very neat countries and conglomerations. If you think about Greece in this period, they’re not even calling themselves Greece. There is probably, potentially, a sense of a united identity—though even that’s contested—but what we’re seeing, particularly in the archaeology, is individuated city states that have trade connections with other cultures. So when we are talking about women, we are not talking about isolated Greek women, we’re talking about a map of women across different cultures, many of which treated women in different ways. There were some cultures in which women could become incredibly important, like the Hittite Empire, where their names were handed down to posterity in ways that we tend not to see in the Mycenaean Greek tradition. So that was a massive eye-opener.

And then secondly, Homer has often been venerated as a Greek-centered text. It is, of course, written in Greek. And there are a lot of scholars who would argue that there is a drive within it towards Hellenic identity. But at the same time, it’s not inconceivable that the bards who were sharing these stories before the epics were written down were circulating within a very fluid and much more global cosmopolitan tradition. And therefore, there could be threads of all kinds of different cultures, all kinds of different women’s stories woven into the epics. So we’re shaking up this idea that we are looking at a canonical male text, because now we’re looking at something that could be fluid and oral, that could have space for women from different cultures, that doesn’t just have to be Hellenocentric but can be looking across the ancient Mediterranean world writ large. For me, as a historian, that gave me so much space to play in.

If you take that concept of shaking up what it meant to be Greek, does the same process allow for a shaking up of what it meant to be a woman?

That is something I really wanted to address in the book. One of the key characterizations of woman’s place in society—to be sidelined and silenced and marginalized—is not, in fact, necessarily from Homer. I think Homer is a contributing factor, but perhaps weighing more heavily is the importance of Athens in the 5th century BCE, the so-called classical period in which it’s very likely that the Homeric poems became concretized and standardized. That same period is when women had the least amount of autonomy, where the ideal was that women weren’t meant to be seen, they were kept within the household, they should be silent, and that was the only way that they can gain any kind of approbation. I think that because of the importance of classical Greece this became such an important model, so much so that other variant models of what it might be to be a woman from other cultures across the Mediterranean—and even from within Homer where you do get a complexity of womanhood—became forgotten.

There are a couple of chapters that really stood out on that front, one exploring Athena and her gender fluidity, and then Penthesilea, who is the Amazon, the female warrior. This brings me on to a very tangly subject: how did you grapple with the fluidity of legend versus all this scientific research when creating what you call your own “counter-history”?

Legend is such a difficult one. I spend a lot of time defining it in the book, because what’s really interesting about legend is that it doesn’t exist outside of text. We only have fixed end-product versions that gesture back to earlier legends. Legend and myth, by definition, are fluid, oral, moving, unfixed, something that can be changed. That is why myth is such a powerful force, precisely because it can be changed. And that’s what’s so interesting about epic—they begin as earlier oral instantiations handed down by bards with that fluidity of legend behind them, but they have now been fixed and rooted. Because I am a scholar of archaic literature—and that’s what you’re looking at in the archaic period, this transition from oral, burgeoning myth into textual versions—you get quite used to oscillating between the two. It’s telling you something about what the text is trying to do—on the one hand, it’s gesturing towards wider meanings while on the other hand, it’s also closing them down and saying, this is my version.

Absolutely, and that gives you much more gray space in which to play. So what do you see as your role within that?

My role is to open people up to an understanding of how these ideas came about while at the same time, harnessing the flexibility of myth to show that these ideas can always be changed. So we’re explaining why the canon has the force that it has, but we’re also saying myths can always be rewritten and changed, and therefore, this is where we can come in and see things from a new angle.

Digging into that a little bit more, especially as International Women’s Day is coming up, how does this distant history draw into our current times?

As we’ve mentioned, in each of the chapters I link how these experiences do speak to modern themes. I think the overarching sense of the book was that women have always been there in history. That is the bottom line. Fifty per cent of the population was living their life throughout history, and it is our job now to start to tell these stories about them. In the past, the silence of women in the record used to be taken as an excuse not to look further. What this book taught me was to see this instead as an invitation to be more inventive and more exciting methodologically, to dig deeper, to ask different questions, so that by the end you actually come out with something that, to me, is even richer and more exciting. Silence is not the stopping point, it’s the start.

This title will be published on February 24, 2026 by Tor Publishing Group.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of The Red Winter.

Twenty years after what he thought was his final encounter with the terrible Beast of Gevaudan, the mysterious and unaging Professor Sebastian Grave is summoned back to the French countryside by an estranged lover to face the Beast—and plenty of other unfinished business—again. Readers follow Sebastian not only on his journey back to Gevaudan, but through his memories as he reflects on his history with the Beast, which began long before its gleeful rampage in Gevaudan. Accompanied by Sarmodel, the ravenou s demon co-habiting his body, Sebastian is forced to confront past failures in this bloody debut from Cameron Sullivan. Sullivan invites the audience to peek behind the curtain of one of Europe’s most mysterious werewolf stories as he blends history and fantasy in The Red Winter.

One of this novel’s greatest strengths is its entertaining use of footnotes.The Red Winter is initially framed as Sebastian’s reflection on his increasingly violent confrontations with the Beast over several centuries. The footnotes are written from Sebastian’s present-day point of view and containadditional context about the world’s magic system and the different historical/mythological figures that appear throughout the novel. Alongside occasional commentary on the story itself, these footnotes are delivered as witty asides by a much older Sebastian. Some of the novel’s most amusing moments come from present-day Sebastian congratulating his past self on a pun he is still proud of or offering his opinions on the various historical figures encountered throughout his long, strange life.Aside from the occasional levity and the helpful worldbuilding, the footnotes create an interesting duality in Sebastian’s point of view that isn’t present in many other novels; readers get to see many versions of this character, including one that has already processed the plot of the novel itself.

Sebastian’s character, in general, is another stand-out element of this novel.Due to his near immortality and inability to age, he’s forced to adapt to a constantly evolving world but is never able to truly live as part of it.He is accustomed to outliving those he comes to care about and that knowledge makes connecting with people difficult. Additionally, Sebastian must continuously feed on anima, or the essence, of other living creatures to sate Sarmodel’s endless hunger.Sarmodel is the only constant in Sebastian’s seemingly endless life, and despite his hunger and occasional moodiness, this demon possesses an incredible insight into Sebastian’s psyche, as he’s been with Sebastian every bloody step of the way. Their relationship is strange and requires delicate balance, but Sarmodel offers a truly unique foil to Sebastian’s character. For example, he often advocates impulsivity where Sebastian favors restraint. Ironic, considering it’s Sarmodel who is the ancient, unfathomably old demon—you’d expect him to have learned patience at some point! Both characters have such strong, individual personalities despite co-habiting the same body for centuries that the moments when they flip and lean into traits associated more with the other are especially impactful.

Despite the dark, inhuman existence he is forced to lead, Sebastian still manages to maintain his humanity and a genuine respect for life even in moments when it would be easier not to.One example comes when he chooses to mercy kill an ancient water nymph cursed by the Beast.While Sarmodel revels in the feast of anima her death provides, Sebastian has a very different reaction: “I covered my ears and screamed to hide Sarmodel’s triumphant howl as he claimed her essence. I could not bear it.”In addition to being a former ally, this water nymph was potentially the last of her kind; however, she had been corrupted by the Beast’s curse and sentenced to a dark, painful existence. While Sarmodel saw her largely as a meal and a way to increase his power, Sebastian’s decision to kill her was made of a desire to end her suffering.Sebastian’s ability to maintain that respect for life despite needing to feed off it is an intriguing layer to his character. It wouldn’t be as impactful without the contrast between him and Sarmodel. Despite the centuries they’ve spent co-existing in the same body, they remain very different people.

For the most part, The Red Winter succeeds in balancing its complex narrative within a complicated and multilayered story structure—with one exception.While most of the novel is told from Sebastian’s point of view, there are a few chapters from the perspective of Livia, a succubus bound to his service through a magical contract.Livia is a fun character—she’s quippy and helps introduce readers to another side of the novel’s magic system—but there are several times her point of view feels untethered from the rest of the story.Her character is not as well developed as Sebastian’s or even some of the non-POV characters and she plays such a small role within the story that suddenly being thrust into her perspective is jarring.Part of this issue comes from her motivations; while hunting the Beast evolves from an exciting challenge to a personal mission for Sebastian, Livia is only compelled to participate in the hunt because she is ordered to through their contract. That’s a fine reason, but it makes her far less impactful to the story.She doesn’t grow like Sebastian does and her chapters are so short it’s difficult to get invested in her side of the story.I would’ve liked to see her fleshed out more. Perhaps that will be a possibility in future books, as the novel’s ending is left open for a sequel.

Overall, The Red Winter is an exciting addition to the historical fantasy genre and a dynamic debut into the literary scene from Cameron Sullivan.While this novel is not a light read, Sullivan manages to inject it with enough levity to balance out its truly dark moments without undermining the spookier elements.This novel is perfect for fans of European history and stories that blur the lines between fantasy and horror.

Alina van den Berg

she/her

What is your favorite place to read?   

Weirdly enough, I love reading on public transportation. I suppose it’s not the most comfortable place in the world, but there is something to be said about getting long stretches of time when you are not expected to do anything. It’s a liminal space. I have read a ridiculous number of books on my commute to and from work. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?  

It opens into a dark tunnel, carved out of the mountain itself. I follow it with nothing but a flickering lighter to guide me. It slopes down, down, down until there is nowhere else to go except out the large metal door that stands at its end. I heave it open—only to find myself back outside on the wooded path. Except, instead of stumbling into sunlight and the rustling of summer canopies I left behind, I find charcoal-dark trees and a path covered in snow. 

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.  

I am going through a phase where all I want to drink is water, but I used to carry around a bottle of iced barley tea. Something about its nuttiness feels calming to me. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language? 

My current favorite word in English is “esophagus.” A friend pointed out it’s a word that lives in your throat, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. To be honest, I’m fond of a lot of words in many languages, but at the moment “cafuné” comes to mind—it’s Portuguese for an affectionate head scratch you might give someone. It’s such a warm word. 

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?  

Book: Jane Austen’s Persuasion. Music: J.Y.N.’s Bittersweet EP. 

Persuasion is a comfort read for me and I think it would help me stay calm. It’s one of those books I can read multiple times without getting tired of it. J.Y.N., on the other hand, would keep me company and give me an extra boost of energy to go collect firewood. 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

Although this is not true for all corners of this industry, it can be disheartening to see how profit has become a priority over creativity or even quality. In an ideal world, new ideas and voices aren’t simply accepted but are actively searched for. As much as risk-aversion is a survival strategy in publishing, it is also one that can lead us further away from what it means to tell stories. 

Anne Ramirez

What is your favorite place to read?   

My favorite place to read is on public transportation. This isn’t always easy, as I am often distracted, but I love the combination of being transported physically, intellectually, and emotionally. One of my favorite reading experiences was on a train from Hungary to Czechia, when I spent the ride reading about the history of Prague and its landmarks. It both relieved me from the long day of travel and anchored me in my trip to Prague. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?    

I will always open every door I come across. This one is wooden, round, and hobbit-like, with a dirty window that’s impossible to see through (I tried). I pull on the handle with all my strength, only to discover that it’s a push door. I push it open and there is a startled deer who is solving a crossword in front of a crackling fireplace, using his mouth to hold the pen since he only has hooves. He invites me to help him solve his crossword with him. I happily accept. 

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.    

My daily morning ritual is to pour myself a chai latte: half-chai and half-milk. I try to avoid drinking coffee daily since I am sensitive to large levels of caffeine, but when I do occasionally treat myself, I choose a lavender latte. My lovely roommate has invested in an espresso machine, so I love tasting all their homemade lattes when I have the chance. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language?  

My favorite word is defenestrate, which is a verb that means “to throw out a window.” I love how specific and uncommon it is, as I hadn’t heard it used in a sentence until reading about the Defenestrations of Prague, which are quite important to Czechia’s history and in understanding the 30 Years’ War. I like the word itself because it’s so lengthy and official-sounding for something so simple. 

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?   

I would pick a book to keep me mentally stimulated and engaged, so I think The Awakening and Other Stories by Kate Chopin would do that for me. The variety of short stories and the re-readability of them would help me stay entertained for a long time, as well as give me reasons to dissect them even further than I have. I would choose Solar Power by Lorde as my album; I think that would be a good way to make this deserted island feel like a vacation resort. 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be? 

If I could change one thing about the literary industry, it would be increasing awareness about different options for accessibility. Countless times, I have heard people talk about how they “hate reading,” only to discover they simply struggle due to disabilities or other issues outside of their control, and have not been presented with tools to help improve their experience. I am grateful audiobooks have become more popular in the last few years, but there’s still a lack of awareness among many people I know. I would also love to bring awareness toward more uncommon genres and interesting stories to modern audiences, as some people I know have been off-put by the presumed difficulty of books. 

Ewa Majewski 

she/her

What is your favorite place to read?   

Definitely at home surrounded by my books and fairy lights, listening to the rain—a setup that is rarely hard to come by when you live in Ireland. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?  

I’d absolutely open it and, unsurprisingly, it leads to a city of starlight, with bookshops tucked into every corner, soft music drifting through the streets, and art everywhere.  

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.  

I take my “coffee“ as hot chocolate; preferably with enough whipped cream and marshmallows to make it a small meal and a minor life event. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language? 

I adore the word epiphany—partly because it feels like that tiny lightning strike of understanding, and partly because it reminds me of the soft melancholy of folklore by Taylor Swift. In another language, I love the German word Marmeladenglasmoment, which roughly translates to “jam jar moment“—a little, precious moment in life so sweet you wish you could jar it up and keep it forever. 

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?   

My album would have to be The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology by Taylor Swift—because it’s cathartic, and if I’m stuck on a deserted island, I need music that understands my mood swings and can keep me company for hours. And for a book, Kingdom of Ash by Sarah J. Maas—the ultimate finale to read, and the perfect excuse to ugly cry in private without anyone judging me. 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

I wish the literary world were a little less judgmental, not just about what we read, but also about how much we read. Whether someone devours fifty or five books a year, rereads the same one for comfort over and over again, or secretly loves guilty-pleasure fanfiction, none of it should come with a side-eye from anyone. 

Pratyusha P.

she/her

What is your favorite place to read?   

As boring as it sounds, it’s my couch—but in a very specific corner, with a very specific twist of limbs. It’s a natural occurrence of perfect balance between peak comfort and mild bodily torture, and somehow that’s when I read best. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?  

No. Absolutely not. I have consumed a completely rational amount of crime television (Criminal Minds, C.I.D., Savdhaan India, Bones, Crime Patrol, The Mentalist, Castle), and every single one of them has personally warned me about this exact scenario. A forest THAT I KNOW IS FOGGY. A mountain. A door that is simply there. That door does not lead to Narnia; it leads to a forty-seven minute episode titled “She Shouldn’t Have Opened It.” I back away slowly, narrate my own escape like I’m in a documentary, and live to say the great words “No way, Jose.”  

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.  

Coffee, for me, is less a beverage and more an act of love. It’s my friends being sweet, or my grandmother fussing over whether I’ve eaten enough. That said, I’ll always choose good old ചായ (Malayalam for tea). I love the first wave of aroma, the foamy first sip, the way the plain version holds its own just as proudly as any masala variation. It’s served in a heated steel glass that practically demands you pull away, but you don’t, because the tea is simply too good. My grandfather made the best tea, and every cup since feels like it’s trying (and failing) to live up to that standard. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language? 

I hate the word “vulnerable.” It’s a phonetic nightmare for someone who learned English as a second language. But the linguistic miracle that is “giving”? The efficiency. The drama. The range. 

Being desi meant being raised between languages. In Malayalam, I adore നുണക്കുഴി (nunakkuzhi), which means dimples but directly translates to “lie holes.” Tell me that’s not poetry. वातावरण (vatavaran) means atmosphere in Hindi, but I use it to describe vibes. Orange in Arabic, for reasons I can’t logically explain, I love the sound of. برتقالي (burthakal)—it just feels satisfying to say. 

But Tamil has a particularly sweet one: “saptiya?” (“Have you eaten?”) In so many desi households, food is love, and asking if you’ve eaten is the softest way to ask, “Are you okay?” 

I’m still deciding on a Korean word — but I’m open to being convinced! 

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?   

Album: Future Nostalgia by Dua Lipa

Because if I’m stranded on a deserted island, I refuse to spiral. I will be dancing, staging dramatic music videos with absolutely no audience, and gaslighting myself into thinking this is a wellness retreat. It’s upbeat, it’s dance-y, it’s serotonin in audio form. I am easy like that. 

Book: Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan (either the first or the last one) 

It was my first step into fandom and my first experience of desperately wanting to live inside a fictional universe. I didn’t even crush on Percy because (1) Percabeth supremacy, and (2) I wanted to be him. Hydrokinesis? Elite. The extremely questionable theoretical potential to blood-bend? Even more elite. Twelve-year-old me was ready to pack a bag and head to Camp Half-Blood immediately. 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

If I could change one thing about the literary industry, it would be how risk-averse it can be. So many brilliant, strange, genre-bending stories don’t get the backing they deserve because they don’t neatly fit into a marketing category or promise an easy comp title. 

I’d love to see more room for experimentation. I WANT more debuts that are messy and ambitious, more stories from voices that aren’t already proven profitable, more books that trust readers to handle complexity. Literature has always been at its best when it’s a little disruptive. LET BOOKS BE WEIRD AGAIN. 

Renee Sadler

What is your favorite place to read?   

On a boat, because everything is better on a boat. Unfortunately, this is a rare luxury for me, so if I can’t slowly rock on the waves, my favorite place to read is on my cozy second-hand couch. I like to sink right into the cushions, cover myself in a thick blanket, and read by colorful lamp light. I typically have CatTV on at the same time since it’s the only way to keep my cats from headbutting my book or sitting directly on the pages.  

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?  

 I’ve never been the most observant person when it comes to my surroundings so noticing the door would be a miracle in itself. I’m also not known for thinking too long before I leap, assuming the stars aligned and I found my way to this door, I would immediately barrel in. Following the sound of acoustic guitars and toy drums, I’d stumble upon a beautiful cave of fantastic multicolored creatures. That’s right, I’m in Fraggle Rock! The harmony, joy, and sense of community that can be found at The Rock is very appealing to me, especially now. Of course, this fantasy also includes me transforming into a puppet version of myself with great hair and a cute little vest.  

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.  

I’ve never understood the love of coffee. However, I’m an avid tea drinker and try to make a cup at the start of each day. I’m partial to black or herbal teas, but I’m open to trying anything, and often grab a bag out of my tea drawer without looking. Right now, my go-to is a rose black tea from my local farmer’s market. No sugar. No milk. Over steeped just a smidge. I want it bitter. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language? 

I’m not sure I’ve ever had a favorite word. I like words. I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t, but I never would have considered having a favorite word if it wasn’t a question I’ve been asked to answer. For now, I’ll say the French loan word “crochet.” I think it sounds nice, fancy, and homey at the same time, and it reminds me of my favorite way to climb up silks, which is a “crochet climb.” This is also a fun way for me to sneak in that I’m an aerialist.  

The only other word that stands out to me is “ragnar,” which isn’t so much a word as a 9th-century Viking whose name my family turned into a verb. It wasn’t until high school that I learned “ragnaring” was not a word other people used. For those interested, it means doing something aggressively and, for some reason, with your teeth. If you are tearing open an envelope with your chompers instead of looking for a pair of scissors, you are “ragnaring” it. I’m not sure why or how this turn of phrase came to be, but I blame my grandpa. It was probably him.   

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?   

Sometimes the first answer you think of is the right one. For me, the first book that came to mind is The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin. After some reflection, and trying to justify other books, I think there are a lot of good reasons to be stuck with this book and only this book. For one, a central theme in the novel is adapting alongside nature. While the icy wastes of Winter couldn’t be more different than the beautiful tropical beaches I assume I’m stranded on, the ideas of working in tandem with your environment and letting nothing go to waste would be important to remember and embody. I’ll likely get sick of the sand and want to escape to the snow anyways, so the setting is actually perfect. Similarly, the book spends a chunk of its time building up the religion of Handdara which is based on Taoism. The interaction between light and dark and unity between opposites are core concepts in both Handdara and the story itself. Being alone, some philosophy would be a great way to center myself. However, I refuse to only bring a philosophy book because that sounds boring. I also need Sci-Fi political drama and cool genderfluid aliens.    

As much as I would LOVE to say Hunky Dory by David Bowie is the album I would bring, it’s simply not true. Sorry Bowie, but that album is only forty-ish minutes long and I would get sick of it so quickly, even though it is my favorite. I think a movie soundtrack is the only music that wouldn’t drive me up the wall after years of being stranded. If I really had to choose, I’d say the Lord of The Rings soundtrack (yes, all three movies. I’m cheating). It’s insanely long with both adventure beats and quiet moments so I can always match my mood. If I’m really starving for vocals, it’s got Enya. Anything else I can just scream-sing from memory. My rendition of “Oh! You Pretty Things” would make me famous amongst the lizards and birds.   

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

I would change the mindset of the industry to take comics more seriously. While we’ve gotten to a point where books like Persepolis and The Complete Maus are seen as valuable contributions to the literary world, it is still an uphill battle for most comic artists/writers to be taken seriously, especially when their work indulges in the bombastic action-packed flair that is a staple of the genre. Comic books, even in their simplest and silliest forms, encourage deep engagement between the reader and the page. Gutters between panels force readers to imagine the possibilities between each scene and draw conclusions. Design elements, such as writing the character’s internal monologue in cursive, influence readers to make their own assumptions about the character’s disposition and background. Media literacy is born from stories that show instead of over explaining and nowhere is that balance more important than in the creation of an issue-by-issue comic where you are constrained to thirty-two pages and could be cancelled at any moment. The ones that do it well deserve recognition. The more I teach literacy workshops utilizing comics, the more passionate I become that comics deserve literary recognition. Not only are they complex forms of writing, but they also encourage literacy development and accessibility. As literacy rates decline, seeing comics not only as a way to convince kids to read but as an accessible way to share stories with the public would make a huge difference, not only to the literary industry, but to society as a whole.  

Mika Ellison

The Dispossessed

It’s been a while since I’ve read Ursual K. Le Guin, so picking up The Dispossessed was a pleasant surprise, since I’d forgotten just how utterly masterful Le Guin is at what she does.

Like many of her novels, The Dispossessed, written in 1974 (I know, I’m late, whatever) is pretty obviously a thought experiment, or rather a series of thought experiments, mostly about what kinds of society are possible for humanity to sustain. Le Guin was inspired by the writing of famous anarchists to create a speculative anarchist society on the moon, one that had split off over a hundred years ago from their capitalist planet. And then she spins out exactly what that might look like, from the perspective of a physicist from the moon who visits the capitalist planet on a research trip/mission. 

But the magic of Le Guin, and what makes her an absolute titan of the genre, is all of this complicated political machinery is reduced to what it actually is: people making decisions, many of them flawed, but just as many attempting to do right by their community and their loved ones. Le Guin’s respect for human compassion, and the ability for people to grow and change, is all the more incredible because of how clearly she sees human nature itself. When she suggests a new vision of humanity, and when she imagines a better, different world, you listen. Because in her hands, anything seems possible. 
The Dispossessed functions brilliantly as both an allegory for the world we live in and as a story that envelops you with its exacting detail and riveting plot. Par for the course for Le Guin, but a revelation for me.

Ari Iscariot

Iron Lung

The end of the world. A convict sentenced to scour an alien planet covered in an ocean of blood. A sea floor littered with clues regarding the disappearance of humanity. Haunted by the ghosts, mistakes, and betrayals of his past, this convict fights to survive in the isolation of a welded shut, rusted submarine and to withstand the influence of horrors so Eldritch and incomprehensible he can barely hold onto his sanity.

This is the premise of Mark Fischbach’s indie horror movie, Iron Lung, adapted from a video game of the same name. Self-financed, cowritten, directed, distributed, and starred in by Mark, this film wasn’t expected to show in more than 50 to 200 theaters. But after insistent requests to theaters, made by fans of Markiplier (Mark Fischbach’s widely successful Youtube channel) and of the game, Iron Lung has shown in more than 4,000 theaters and debuted to the tune of $21.7 million, after reportedly costing $3 million to make. So what’s the secret to the film’s success? 

Firstly, adulation must be given to the technical aspects. With such a small set (a painted wooden box pumped full of 80,000 gallons of blood) the film could have easily become visually boring, trapped in the same space for most of the story. But brilliant camera work elevates the visuals past the usual indie benchmark. The film makes clever use of reflections (a glass port window, a computer screen, even the convict’s eyes) and capitalizes on intense close-ups and dramatic lighting to reveal information in carefully measured punches. Exploration and discovery ensure the space doesn’t feel static, secrets are continually discovered: written messages, concealed panels, and pitch-black crawlspaces. Mark’s acting, after a slow, building start, further guarantees the audience stays invested. His big personality and dramatics are streamlined into a galvanic, desperate, heart-wrenching performance. The eerie sound design, cataclysmic soundtrack, and ever ratcheting tension leaves you raw, gasping, and abs sore from flinching. The emotional aspect of the terror weighs heavy, as the claustrophobic space allows you no visual distraction or escape.

The second secret to the film’s success is the expansion of the convict’s backstory and the game’s lore. Without getting too spoilery, I believe fans of the game will be pleased with how the original story was preserved, while also providing the convict with more depth and agency. In the film, the convict is given the opportunity to decide his fate, and by extension, the fate of humanity. “This is bigger than any of us,” is the film’s repeated tagline, and while it’s unfair not all of humanity will survive, our characters believe sacrifice is a worthy price to pay to leave the world a better place. This allows the film an ending that, while not joyous, still has a breath of hope in it, and is deeply satisfying.

I find this theme strangely fitting for Mark’s first directorial debut. He has expressed many times his own desire to leave the world a better place for future generations. With this film, Mark is trailblazing and inspiring and doing good—creating a blood drive alongside the premiere of the movie, paying bonuses to all his staff after the movie’s success, netting a win for filmmakers by showing independent passion projects can survive and thrive without the support (and censure) of a massive Hollywood studio. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say the success of this movie is a win for everyone, the people who made it, the fans who supported it, and the future movie-makers it will inspire to break beyond the constraints of the industry. Most of all, it’s a win for audiences that desire daring art created with imagination and spite and love.

Taylor Pittman

Heated Rivalry

Heated Rivalry is a Crave original that HBO picked up at the end of 2025. When I tell you, I’ve been obsessed with this show since its release. Based on the Game Changers series by Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry follows Shane and Ilya, two rival hockey players, who end up falling in love with each other. For romance lovers, it has everything: the chemistry, the tension, and a bit of spice. 

However, it is incredibly emotional at times as it explores the struggles professional athletes face regarding their sexuality and the homophobia they may encounter. In fact, since its release, several hockey players have come out themselves, and there is more support and representation in the sport than ever before. It’s already been confirmed for season two, and I can’t wait to see Shane and Ilya’s story continue.

This title was published on June 24, 2025 by Riverhead Books.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Among Friends.

I love a dysfunctional family saga. Whether in a novel, a movie, or a TV show, I thrive off familial dynamics. So, when I read the synopsis for Hal Ebbott’s debut novel, Among Friends, I knew it was going to the top of my to-be-read list The story follows two lifelong friends, Amos and Emerson, who reunite for an intimate, affluent birthday celebration at Emerson’s country home. What begins as a quiet weekend among friends slowly fractures, revealing how privilege can bury the truth.

From the beginning, everything feels unsettled. The characters perform under a façade—off-key, out of tune. Tensions simmer beneath surface-level smiles. Conversations are awkward. Old grudges linger. Wives smile through tight jaws. Among Friends features all the tropes complete with a large manor house and a group of wealthy friends. So, I settled in for what I thought would be a good ol’ domestic drama.

At first, I wondered when we’d get to the action, specifically the “shocking betrayal” the blurb teased. The slow burn was off-putting at first, and I was getting impatient. But in hindsight, it was a good thing Ebbott didn’t drop us directly into the action: it allowed time to explore his characters and understand their motivations, what makes them tick, and where their loyalties lie.

Emerson is the most complex character and perhaps the most well-written—a Jekyll and Hyde figure who can instantly flip from charm to unbridled cruelty. Ebbott describes him as having “lethal intelligence like what exists in a wolf.” His inner rage and entitlement, bolstered by years of unchecked self-importance, are chilling. And yet, his thoughts sometimes feel disturbingly universal, that feeling when teasing goes too far, when resentment crawls closer between two friends. Ebbott asks, what happens when you can’t take it anymore?

Truth be told, I was expecting something completely different from Among Friends. I tried searching for clues of an affair, a scandal, something more conventional. So, when Emerson sexually assaults his Amos’s daughter, Anna, during the party, it’s a brutal shock. On the one hand, Ebbott gives no clear warning this is imminent. But on the other, it had been part of Emerson’s nature all along. The uneasy silences, the flashes of rage.

Every time we’re immersed into Emerson’s headspace, it gave me chills. There’s a sense of entitlement at claiming Anna’s body and a pride of sorts, fortified by his social status. There’s a poignant line that encapsulates the predatory nature of men like him, “He inhabited the world as though it were a restaurant: a place to order, eat, and then leave.” He sees the assault as an “adventure,” knowing he can get away with it—a fuzzy memory that brings him a wolfish “thrill.” It’s uncomfortable to read, but I enjoyed how Ebbott forced us to sit with the knowledge, knowing this behavior often goes unchecked.

The second half of the novel is a testament to Ebbott’s writing. When the truth of Emerson’s assault comes out, the characters spiral. They aren’t strangers; they’re lifelong friends enmeshed by privilege. Reactions range from denial and quiet rage to deflection, with Anna’s own mother resolute in her conviction that “kids—girls especially” lie. Amos, on the other hand, immediately moves to comfort his daughter when she confides in him, angry with himself for not knowing. But with Emerson, the consequences are nonexistent, and he simply feels “there was nothing to do but move on” and thinks “of it far less than he would’ve guessed.” This casual detachment was done masterfully by Ebbott. It wasn’t over-dramatized but scarily mundane. There is no remorse, just a shrug and indifference.

Of all the characters, Amos is the most frustrating. As someone who’s risen through the social hierarchy, he wavers between action and complacency unsure where he stands when it comes to Emerson, the man who helped mold his path to riches. His wife, Claire, born into privilege, acts as a mouthpiece for the wealthy. She refuses to believe her daughter, and her dismissive line, “Wasn’t there a glory in wounds?” echoes the disbelief often thrown at survivors. She’s dangerously comfortable in complicity, favoring denial over discomfort.

Retsy, Emerson’s wife, is perhaps the most mysterious figure in Among Friends. We only get glimpses into her mind, yet she sees through him more clearly than anyone else. She understands him from the smallest gestures, how “his withholding of laughter, for instance, or the way, by merely touching his chin, he could make clear how unwanted you were.” She believes the accusations, “he’d done it—she knew that he had,” but her decision to stay with him feels tragically understandable. To leave would mean uprooting her entire life. And the wealthy cannot fathom such a loss.

It seems like justice might prevail—the scales finally shifting, a peripeteia of sorts. However, as someone whose favorite novel is Atonement, I should’ve recognized the warning signs—the too-neat ending Ebbott wrapped up with a little bow. This catharsis is simply an illusion, and Ebbott pulls the rug out right at the last second. I understand some readers will feel cheated by the ending, and to an extent, I agree. At first, it felt like a cop-out, the equivalent of the “and it was all a dream” ending. However, after sitting with the book for a while, it felt painfully realistic, as men like Emerson walk away unscathed every day, their reputations intact. Justice would never be served.

 “Why pick fights when it cost so little to just get along.” Among Friends isn’t just about rich people behaving badly. It’s about complicity and how people would rather maintain the status quo than confront the darkness that keeps them comfortable. And Ebbott did that devastatingly.

And for a debut? I see good things for Ebbott.