Fiction

Review, Apr-Jun '26

Wed, 01 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

(I’m posting this preemptively and updating it as I go.)

Novels
Poems and Short Stories
Music
1. Nowhere, CA
2. The Killjoy
YouTube
1. Alison
2. Marisa

Novels

In April and May, I read 5* novels.

The Edible Woman, by Margaret Atwood

“So I’m finally going mad,” she thought, “like everybody else. What a nuisance. Though I suppose it will be a change.”
— The Edible Woman, pp. 134

The Edible Woman is fast-paced, witty, and weird.

“I thought you were the capable type.”
“I am,” she said unhappily. “I was. I don’t know.” She didn’t want to discuss it.
“Some would say of course that it’s all in your mind.”
“I know that,” she said, impatient: she wasn’t a total idiot yet. “But how do I get it out?”
“It ought to be obvious,” Duncan’s voice said, “that I’m the last person to ask.”
— The Edible Woman, pp. 289-290

Margaret Atwood is cemented as my favorite author of all time. It turns out she can effortlessly throw down one of the best surrealist satires of all time; it was not enough to merely craft 500 page meticulous historical mysteries and sci-fi epics.

— 5/5 —

Lady Oracle, by Margaret Atwood

What was the use of being Princess-for-a-day if you still felt like a toad?
— Lady Oracle, pp. 238

Another Atwood book about a sad sack contemplating her sad life, full of miserable, pathetic, quirky characters. I absolutely loved it. It’s not as virtuosic as the The Blind Assassin, and not as bitingly funny as The Edible Woman, but it’s close on both fronts.

— 5/5 —

Bodily Harm, by Margaret Atwood

The first thing he said to me was You look like your mother. And that was the end of him.
— Bodily Harm, pp. 102

Bodily Harm is funny, depressing, relatable, and surprisingly disturbing. While still mopey, Rennie has a bit more fire and bite to her than Iris, Marian, and Joan, which was a nice change of pace.

She doesn’t have much time left, for anything. But neither does anyone else. She’s paying attention, that’s all.
— Bodily Harm, pp. 291

The ending was just as perfect as I’ve come to expect. One more masterpiece for the pile.

— 4/5 —

Surfacing, by Margaret Atwood

At the midway pond the heron was still there, hanging in the hot sunlight like something in a butcher’s window, desecrated, unredeemed. It smelled worse. Around its head the flies vibrated, laying their eggs. The king who learned to speak with animals, in the story he ate a magic leaf and they revealed a treasure, a conspiracy, they saved his life; what would they really say? Accusation, lament, an outcry of rage; but they had no spokesman.
I felt a sickening complicity, sticky as glue, blood on my hands, as though I had been there and watched without saying No or doing anything to stop it; one of the silent guarded faces in the crowd. The trouble some people have with being German, I thought, I have being human. In a way it was stupid to be more disturbed by a dead bird than by the those other things, the wars and riots and the massacres in the newspapers. But for the wars and riots there was always an explanation, people wrote books about them saying why they happened: the death of the heron was causeless, undiluted.
— Surfacing, pp. 150

Many people hate this book, for some reason—it’s one of her lowest rated novels—but it might be the best thing that she’s ever written. Surreal, dense, elliptical, brilliant.

— 5/5 —

Thorn in My Side, by C. J. Skuse

Even multiple murderers like day trips.

Somehow, Skuse’s series is still going strong; I might not even call this one a guilty pleasure! Sweetpea #4 is by far the most consistent entry since book #1, and features some of the best side characters of the series. I’m not a major fan of Raphael, but the rest of his family—and their reactions to the crazy nightmare that is Rhiannon—were a fantastic change of pace.

— 3/5 —

Poems and Short Stories

I continue reading short works in hope of learning how to write and where to submit. Once again a # means I loved it, and I’ve introduced the shebang (#!) for the special case something was so 5/5 good I’d universally recommend it.

Had

Statement on Violence, by Samuel Day Wharton

Permafrost

Elevation, by Alfredo Lafarga
Lick the Knife, by Desmond Everest Fuller #
Maybe a Deer, by Michael Czyzniejewski #
Disafiliation, by Donald Pasmore
Amber, by Erin Rodoni
Old Couple, by Tara Mandarano #
Salt & Ice, by Glo Chitwood
Kith, by Anne Duncan #
Veneration, by Shannon Bowring
[Voicemails in Slow Dissociation], by Judy Xie #
As the West Coast Burns, by Hannah Dierdorf #!

Litro

Illinois, by Desmond Everest Fuller #
Chances Are, by John Brantingham #

Carve

The Road Out of Juneau, by Caitlin Scarano #

Music

Not as many great new albums yet, but the summer looks promising.

Nowhere, CA (2026), song by Hana Bryanne

Hana Bryanne’s album Dollface was my obsession during the holiday months of 2024-2025; I must have listened to it 20 or 30 times while on vacation in Mexico. Her new song Nowhere, CA is just as excellent; hopefully it’s indicative of a new album in the works!

The Killjoy (2023), by Sarah Gross

I’m not usually one for country, but Sarah’s music is a lovely, modern, catchy mix of country with indie folk/pop/rock and progressive lyricism. I can’t wait for her new album in July, the two singles are bangers!

YouTube

I’ve added a section for YouTube because I found some brilliant channels and I’ve nowhere else to shout them out.

Alison (@alisontalksbooks)

Alison is a refreshingly earnest, open, and authentic video essayist. She writes a substack that is equally worthwhile.

Marisa (@largeicedmochalatte)

It took me a litte while to understand the true brilliance of what Marisa is doing with her fast-paced, self-deprecating, over-sharing videos, that she purportedly writes on the subway after work, and films from her one-bedroom New York City appartment, but she is one of the most authentically hilarious people I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to.

I think a lot of, you know, the reasons not to kill yourself kind of go out the window when you, when you really are an athiest. I don’t think you should do it, and this is an anti-suicide channel, uhm, because suicide is a lot of work, and why are you doing all that. If I ever die just know I, I am probably happy about it, but I didn’t do that shit myself. That was an act of god… So to speak.
— my thoughts on athiesm, 12:21-12:46

Her channel is a relatable, old-YouTube, sad-werid-person-talks-to-camera vlog, but written, performed, and editied by one of the most talented comedians on the platform. I’ve had to stop listening to the videos in public because I was embarassing myself laughing.

Theory

Wed, 20 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

He searched the scrolling green for anything of note. The shift had helped at first, but there loomed a point of no return; the whole Summer to think of.

“Do you know the area the cabin’s in? From last time…” Pavement was a sight for sore eyes. She’d worked there a couple of years before, he’d been told, something with counting fish.

“No, we were down by the estuary. Our place’s in the hills.”

Our place. “Didn’t you get to town, though? Or were you all alone with the salmon.”

“We’d carpool over to bars or whatever on weekends.”

“Salmon and drinking, then?”

“There’s karaoke and trivia at the Yukon, this awful place Tony’s, sometimes music out of town at The Pit”

“What, why’s it awful?”

“Tony’s? Oh, it sucks. You’ll see. Maybe. I won’t be showing you.”

“A bad crowd, like the Spur? A least there’s no military”

“No. It’s just awful.”

He laughed. “It’s old then, another pub situation?”

“No. Ask around when we’re there.”

“We’re going to Tony’s first thing after we get in tonight.”

“No.”

The signs and structures were already lit when they started to disrupt his forest view; it was early spring, though midnight sun would never touch this coast anyway. They pulled in for gas outside a Fred’s. He pointed across the way after she got back in, to the green sign glowing in a window.

At the table they met eyes, for the first time since pick-up.

“Still good to drive? I’ll do the night shift.”

“No, I like driving.”

They finished burritos in silence.

The Subaru navigated vacant blocks, a brief break between highways. Past the city towered moonlit snow caps. Their slopes pressed the road to a ledge over the ocean. It relented and slipped inland down a valley.

Dark walls and stained wood gave the room a devilish hue. He sat on a stool beside a ceiling post, behind. A draw from a pint glass, a shot bummed on introduction. Short hair curled in at the nape.

She’d kept careful pace with the pickup down winding dirt roads. Waves crashed, and wind whipped across water, over from the street he’d stumbled out on. A tarp drew back to two double bunks. Frigid air tickled toes, while a camp stove burned blue in the corner; one penknife against the chill.

The two strangers tended to a kettle. There was no sign of her from his position at the top. He wanted to remain, but the night was catching up.

“Good morning.” His elbows scraped rough wood through the foam bedding.

They each gave a nod. On the floor the heel of his Solomon poked out from under a blanket; further up hung fingers.

“Tony’s.” One groaned. “Fuckin’ killed the whole night.”

He swung down. The digits retracted, and auburn tumbled across the pillow. Laces cinched, he pushed out into the blinding gray.

Gravel, waves, the bay, the town front, framed under mountains and a monochrome sky. The beach held nothing but the hut and bare trees. He urinated at a trunk, then strolled up the coast. Docks came into view, but not a sail in sight.

“We made some for you, too.” She sat alone with a mug, the blanket around her shoulders. The brave burner had been snuffed.

“My clothes are so damp, it’s freezing out there with the wind. Mmm.” There were no windows, but light bled through gaps. “Where are they?” Her hosts. An undisclosed pet.

“They left for work.”

“Oh. Hatchery, right?”

“Mmhmm.”

It was black with honey; British breakfast, he thought. “What’s the plan today?”

“Want to go to the library?”

His thumb moved towards the ceiling. After a left-handed struggle with a jeans pocket, he lowered the cup. “It doesn’t open ’til eleven. We could just park and walk around. That street looked nice.”

Her turn for a gesture.

Spacious aisles and scattered furnishings were visible through full-length panes. Next came a coffee hut with a long line wrapping from its window. A nautical cafe packed with fast breakers. Thrift above a stairway. Whitecaps washed the neat rock bank on their right. Crisp grass waved in the breeze, as did the floral flags hung from each lamppost. The pavement underfoot had been swept clean. He could still make out that stark dawn across the water.

At the terminal T was a Victorian that advertised espresso. Profiles sipped drinks in the upper windows. A picture in a trendy brochure.

“Doesn’t look as crowded here.”

“No.”

For a moment, her shadow. They took their lattes up, and found a table. Others sat alone with laptops. He saw what lay in wait.

Gruening

Sat, 11 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Floor five was perverse. An ancient architectural puzzle, perhaps? Or else some administrative inside joke. The blueprint at the stairwell bore no resemblance to reality, none that Elias could decipher, anyway. Numbers skipped up and down the walls as they pleased.

He had been wandering vacant hallways for the better part of the evening. His absences never registered with the rest, at least they’d yet to inspire a search. It was quite a difficult thing to comprehend. Aloofness in other matters may have impressed that this was by intention.

Beyond a doorway, over ten desks packed in awkward rows, he caught ’glimpse of another. Traipsing past lecterns, it opened to an isolated passage, apparently under an assumption that the intermediate furnishings were decorative. What possibly took place here?

MATH 643/PHIL 661: Topics in Logic
Location: Barnette 533e
Time: 3:00pm-4:30pm Tue/Thu
Instructor: a name; no head shot, office, nor any apparent academic genealogy.
Description: TBD.

That’d attract those to pass The Ways, he figured. Then again, he’d enroll…

Review, Jan-Mar '26

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

My aim at the start of this year was to read more novels and short fiction, rather than watch the disgusting amount of films I did last year. Three months in, I’ve been somewhat successful.

Novels

In January, February, and March, I read 10 novels out of the 12 that I’d hoped for.

The Shining, by Stephen King

I’m a big fan of The Shining film by Stanley Kubrick, but I’d always heard that it is very different from the original book. Most of the other media I’ve seen that is based on King’s stories has disappointed me, so I went into The Shining novel with some trepidation.

I needn’t have feared: the book is great. It is quite verbose—the majority of situations are shown separately from the three main characters’ perspectives—but never felt repetitive. The prose is simple, yet still interesting: a breeze to read; I flew through the 600+ pages of my mass market paperback in under six days.

In the novel, Jack’s point of view provides a warped and repressed picture of his past actions and his present motivations. He comes off as a much more sympathetic character than Jack does in the film—until he doesn’t.

Interestingly, while both are scary, the things I found most frightening in book are explicitly supernatural, and left out of the film. Even so, I personally think that Kubrick crafted a great adaptation: it takes liberties, but gave me a similar feeling of dread and decline. I’ll definitely check out more Stephen King, probably starting with the source material for my other favorite movie adaptations: Carrie (1976) and Christine (1983).

— 4/5 —

The next thing I read was These Demented Lands, a sequel to the novel Morvern Callar, which I read last year.

Morvern Callar, by Alan Warner (Read in 2025)

Morvern Callar, directed by Lynne Ramsay, is my unequivocal favorite film of all time. The movie released in 2002, while the novel on which it’s based was written by Alan Warner, and published in 1995. Online you’ll find numerous posts that dismiss the novel as inferior to its adaptation—so it was to my great surprise that I fell in love with the book as well!

It was the first time I’d slept alone in four year and you only listen to your heart when you sleep alone. I had kept my wrist watch on cause there was no one to scratch.
— Morvern Callar, pp. 37

I’ve re-read large sections of it several times, and the paperback stands alongside the blu ray among my most prized possessions. Regardless of medium, Morvern Callar is a story about grief and anxiety, loneliness and alienation, survival and independence. Morvern is one-of-a-kind; the most original and compelling fictional character I’ve ever encountered.

— 5/5 —

These Demented Lands, by Alan Warner

‘Man, you are zilch, you are zilch in weirdyness to things I did and saw way Down There,’ I shouted to him as he approached, the stag’s horns on his motorcycle helmet (that he was later arrested for as an accident hazard) moving slow from side to side as he braked to a stop; the old motorbike phuttering away.
— These Demented Lands, pp. 44

These Demented Lands is a bizarre creation. It’s a sequel that—beyond the narrative voice—never lets on that it is a sequel until the final line; it never even lets on if what’s written is meant to be taken literally. After only one read, I’m not capable of deciphering what it’s all exactly about, but I know that I had a blast. It is a sort of surrealist mix of Morvern Callar with Mad Max; more funny and more disturbing than Morvern’s first adventure, but not quite as profound.

— 4/5 —

The Sopranos, by Alan Warner

I went into The Sopranos not knowing what to expect. Why was Alan Warner writing about “the sexual adventures of Catholic girls,” as the quote from E. Anne Proulx on the back of my copy states? What could possibly have influenced such an about face from his first two works?

The first chapter had me chuckling, though, and I immediately realized my mistake: of course he should write a comedy, These Demented Lands was hilarious! When I reached the chapter titled Hymn to Orla Johnstone, I found he had not deviated at all—I was reading a continuation of the ideas in Morvern, just tackled from new perspectives.

But what Fionnula felt was anger, not anger at Iain or Catriona, not anger at Kay’s folk, not even anger at their absurd religion, but anger at the sky and the roundabout and the whole charade that puts a young, lovely girl, lost in a city; unknown as to what she really wants an too lonely to imagine.
— The Sopranos, pp. 236

The Sopranos is the incredibly written, hilarious, crushingly sad, and wonderfully hopeful story of a life-changing 24 hour period in the lives of six young women. The review I quoted above is unforgivably misleading: there is little on page sexual activity, and what there is, is not lurid. It’s not sexualizing Catholic schoolgirls, the characters are just 17 year olds; their conversations will, of course, veer into risqué territory.

Fionnula accepted what Orla had told her by reaching out, taking the fiver in her hand and gripping it tight, she accepted everything that was going to happen until the end.
— The Sopranos, pp. 323

The final chapter is one of the most emotional endings that I have ever read. Never have I laughed and cried so much while reading one book.

— 5/5 —

Under the Skin, by Michel Faber

Another week and another Scottish novel that served as source material for a film that I love. I won’t rag on this too much, but suffice it to say that the film is almost entirely different—and is much better for it. The characters were plain, the ideas surface level, and the world building made little sense beyond providing a contrived premise for the specific moral quandaries the author had in mind.

— 2/5 —

The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood

But in life, a tragedy is not one long scream. It includes everything that led up to it. Hour after trivial hour, day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment: the knife stab, the shell burst, the plummet of the car from the bridge.
— The Blind Assassin, pp. 417-418

One of the most impressive novels that I have ever read. It’s a page-turning mystery, a devastating tragedy, a complex romance, and a meticulous piece of feminist historical fiction, all woven into a whole that is even greater. Alias Grace has long been my go-to answer for, “What is my favorite book?” And The Blind Assassin is its equal.

— 5/5 —

In Bloom, by C. J. Skuse

The Sweetpea series is a guilty pleasure of mine. At its best, the writing is incredibly clever and funny. At its worst, the story devolves into trashy smut and the author’s repetitive musings on things that she finds annoying.

Previous to this year, I’d already seen the show and read the first book, but I won’t dedicate a full review to those. The Starz show is better than the novels in many ways—it mostly avoids self indulgence and shows how awkward and disturbing Rhiannon is when observed from outside her perspective—and worse in others—it chickens out of a certain plot line in a way that strains believability.

In Bloom is the second book of the series and it is probably the weakest of the three that I’ve read. Still, it was pretty darn entertaining and the ending was so great that I bumped my opinion into the positive.

— 3/5 —

The Stars in the Bright Sky, by Alan Warner

‘Anne Boleyn lived here for a short time, it said on the Internet.’
‘What happened to her?’ Manda frowned.
Kay drew her finger across her throat.
‘Dozy cow. Must have been asking for it. If she had this place, what more did she want?’
‘I can’t believe you even have a bad opinion of Anne Boleyn.’ Finn shook her head disappointedly.
— The Stars in the Bright Sky, pp. 172

TSitBS is an excellent sequel to The Sopranos, though I did not find it nearly as emotional. It’s also less creative in its language and punctuation, but still experimental in its commitment to ensemble conversations. The dialogue and character work is amazing, as expected, and it’s the funniest Warner book I’ve read so far. The ending is ridiculous—I couldn’t have worked it out even if I had 100 guesses.

— 4/5 —

Trainspotting, by Irvine Welsh

After devouring four Alan Warner novels, I decided to check out other Scots writing. What could be a better choice to start with than Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting? It’s one of the most popular Scottish books of all time, and Welsh and Warner seem to be good friends.

Trainspotting is one of the most disgusting pieces of fiction that I’ve ever read, and I say that (mostly) as a compliment. Individual chapters would frequently blow me away, but they never wove together in a particularly moving manner—unlike the set pieces in The Sopranos, which crescendo-ed to have me rolling with laughter or bawling my eyes out. Nevertheless, it features excellent prose and complex, entertaining characters, so I will definitely read more from Welsh in the future.

— 4/5 —

The Panopticon, by Jenni Fagan

The Panopticon is YA Trainspotting, for better and for worse. I loved each of the residents, and I was invested in their plights—I was on their side right from the jump, and I loved them—flaws and all. But the author cared far too much that us readers MUST love her characters, and eventually their goodness was spelled out to the point of emotional manipulation. As Scots writing, it felt inspired by Warner and Welsh, but it lacked their experimental brilliance.

— 3/5 —

Dead Head, by C. J. Skuse

The change of setting was welcome in Sweetpea book three, and the new characters were mostly excellent. However, it would periodically insert some bland new sexual predator or child abuser for Rhi to murder, and the author is clearly not interested in writing these scenarios anymore—I’m certainly no longer interested in reading them. Like the first two in the series, there is a fantastic dark comedy in this novel somewhere, but it’s cluttered by commercial trappings.

— 3/5 —

Poems and Short Stories

As I’ve been attempting to write my own short fiction, I decided to read some literary journals. Below are all the short fiction and nonfiction pieces that I’ve read this year. I don’t really know how to rate them, so I’ll just put # after any that I particularly enjoyed.

HAD

The Maw by the Sea, by Morgan Rose-Marie
The way I remember things probably didn’t happen, by Katherine Schmidt
The Ape God Addresses Mononoke, by Steven Duong
Summer Boyfriends, by Emily Polson #
Things I Should Have Outgrown by Now, by Megan Williams
I’m Leaving a Quart of Plain Yogurt and If You Don’t Want to Eat It Do You Mind Throwing It Out?, by Anney Bolgiano
Aries Season, by Frances Klein
Time Capsule Love Song, by Tom Snarsky
IF YOU WANNA FIGHT, FIGHT, by nat raum
Eat Local, by Julia Juster
One-Way Mirror, by Dylan Evers #
Are You Down to Summon Megan Fox, by Dylan Evers #
Ode to the Texture of Grapefruit, by Kyla Guimaraes
Cupid Frontiersman, by June Villers

Permafrost

Other People’s Email, by Andy Stevens
Slow Burn, by Daniel Webre
Hills & Dales Shopping Centre, by Eric Van Hoose
Reality, by Laurence Klavan
How to not drive cross country, by Carmen Catena
Sorrow’s Delicacy, by Matthew Meduri
Waiting for the End, by Angela Miyuki Mackintosh
The Log, by Keigh Ahr
À la Carte Blanche, by Zach Powers
The Trees They Grow So High, by Jacqueline Vogtman #
In the House of Eternal Return, by Michael Sheehan
Settle Road, by Morgan Rose-Marie
Spectral, by Rebecca Meacham
incantation, by Bex Pachl
Looking at the Meat, by Angela Townsend
Chalk Boy, by Charlie Rogers
Woofin’, by Alex Juffer
To the Man Who Didn’t Humiliate Me, by Brian Benson
She Wants to Swim with Narwhals, by Billie Hinton
East Palestine, Ohio: February 2023, by Ashley Anderson

Music

Lots of great albums this winter. Not quite last year with Samia, but we’re still eating well.

Not Anything, Just Everything (2026), by Kristiane

My first impression of Kristiane was that she was a budget Phoebe Bridgers. Now I’m a big fan. Idaho is so damn catchy.

Tropical Lush Ice / 10 Drunk Cigarettes (2026), by Georgia Maq

Georgia Maq is my favorite artist, this new single and bangin’ cover are just as excellent as everything else she’s released. My most listened songs from the year so far, no contest.

Pumpkin (2026), by Georgia Parker

One of my most anticipated releases, and it did not disappoint. It’s one of those albums I think of as one piece, rather than dilineated songs. I just listened again to try and pick a favorite, but they all blend perfectly, I can’t do it.

Ricochet (2026), by Snail Mail

Snail Mail has been one of my favorite artists ever since I discovered her through one of ManneredMonkey’s chess streams; he’s also how I was introduced to Laura Stevenson, truly a man of fine taste (I haven’t watched him in five years, I can’t vouch for how he is now). Five years and one vocal cord surgery later, we finally have new Lindsey music! I listened to the whole thing several times over the night it came out, rocking out the whole time. Her voice is different now, softer and less raspy, but the album still slaps. Color me surprised when I went on Reddit and other social media to find middling to negative reviews.

No matter what, or come what may, I bounce right back to ya; ricochet into the hole you dug for me, ‘cause I keep holding you up, girl. There’s no release. There’s no release.
— Ricochet

People are sleeping on this one, the title track alone might be the best song of her career.

Workhorse (2025), by Isabel Pless

You’re allowed to bleed outside the lines, Isabel you’re allowed to change your mind.
— Isabel

Workhorse came out last year, but only found its way to me in 2026. Isabel is now one of my favorite artists. Brilliant, honest lyrics, and exactly my style of music. She released a new single as well, I look forward to her album this summer!

for myself and for you.m4a (2026), by Olivia Barton

A stripped down, acoustic version of Barton’s excellent album from last year. I suprisingly much prefer this version, I doubt I’ll ever reach for the original again. Truly a special, personal piece of art.

Adit

Sun, 05 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

His fingers frolicked, not scraping, grinding ’gain ’gainst gravel, frost, but free, grasping, clasping, locking a purchase by which were four limbs propelled, this time with no doubt, no: no spectre thought so high! And rustling, tightening, the hairs… Why, ’was but sudden, inspired locomotion!

When the grasp came, then—came past skin, ’twixt heart and lungs, esophagus—such was it that underneath he scampered, scattered, scrambled the day down whole. But ’twas not so far gone, no, not as yet, and churning beneath, and pulsing above, moved more imminent victories.

One day.

Cartography

Tue, 10 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

All was grey, wet, glistening in the sun. Between bare branches of birch and aspen, distant mountains peeked from hilltops. Footsteps crunched on crust with the occasional patch of melt interjecting.

Rumbles came up the road, and the runner edged left, not a choice, and was muffled in the shoulder.

“Want a seltzer?” A bare hand draped dark blue papered aluminum out the window of a sedan.

There was a pause. “Uhm. Sure.” The can hopped rides. Then nothing.

“You looked thirsty!” The passenger laughed, and they were off around the bend.

After a time, crackles resounded once more. Held in front, bobbing at each impact, a streak of green and red aurora ran across the label.

The vodka bubbly lodged in a fridge door at the cabin, not likely to escape. Then it was up stairs—varnished 2x6 slats arranged at interval between their tall brothers—to a cramped bedroom.

Thin black glass slipped out from a zipper pocket along their lower back. Cotton and denim replaced wool and synthetics, which were hung sodden from dresser knobs and bookshelf ends. The contours of hills illuminated at a touch.

A tiny triangle sat center of concentric ovals, with a path extending to the right; that one path eventually split into three. There were, also, a couple of words: Spring—where the north fork met a blue squiggle—and, some length below the crossroads—Entrance.

Battering Ram

Tue, 10 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

Behind, a relay switched on and off, on and off, a gray sheet of fuzz six inches above. I rolled in the bag and wormed up to jiggle the headlight switch; the noise stopped.

Stomach wedged between seats, legs on an inflatable pad across the plywood that covered my belongings, I managed the zipper down and cold flooded the gap. The ring was in a denim pocket on the wrong side, so took a bit more managing. A bike pedal pressed in my side and doors would not open for hours yet. The ignition turned, to no response.

Before bed I’d pushed the lock without taking keys. Should’ve been a spare in the Broncos wallet I’d found in Colorado, but the bugger’d fallen down the center console. I had tried for the bathroom at Walmart, then stood and shivered in my jeans and sweatshirt.

Via text, my parents had helped to consult the hivemind: no roaming in Canada. A post mentioned cab companies could do car locks, yet the man on the line had been confused. He’d suggested the RCMP, and, loopy enough, I’d taken the shot; they had scoffed, rightfully.

Eventually Mom’d rang and read the number for a tow company. They’d “get me in a minute,” third call’s the charm, I’d supposed. The desk attendant didn’t object, but had kept eyes on me all the while I’d taken refuge in the hotel lobby. Out $75, I’d got safe in the bag.

Alone among white aisles, my object was displayed on a cardboard stand. I tried not to resent the purchase. Big ceilings had my eyes fuzzy. I plugged the battery in at the pole beside my space. The lot outlets were on, thanks to the cold; then, it was the cold that’d caused the predicament.

Teeth separated two candy tablets out of the paper tube, a gift from the princess at the convenience counter. Though there’d been no shortage of highway strangeness, last night’s date registered in the dawn.

My father and I had built the makeshift camper in the back four months prior for an opposite journey. I’d barely lasted one after he’d flown off, and that was in the mountains. At the doctorate I was to teach 40 freshman, ‘kind of stealing it’d occurred. I’d gone back to say my intention and sit the conversations, then to hand over keys.

An hour on the indicator switched green. Attaching leads, the vehicle hummed up without a fuss. Jump-starter sat passenger side and hooked via an inverter to the lighter. I had a McGriddle from the drive-through before the AlCan, while a voice read Let the Right One In. (The poor lady in hospital’d burned up.)

A shiny crack in the dark needles wound up and down between sections of flat straight. The sides cut 50 feet back, it was imposing in spite of the single lanes.

The empty sky reflected off snow in Fort Nelson, illuminating signage green, white in blinding contrast. Lunch was footlong chicken breast, my usual, infamously plant substitute. After cold cuts’ affair with cancer I liked to think, maybe, that I’d dodged a bullet. Probably the long term effects of ORCB aren’t studied, though.

It showed 1191 miles left, the route: Fort Collins to Fairbanks, a stop in Yellowstone. Whitehorse looked at least half that, so no hope tonight. If not for the course Friday I’d rather have made it in three days instead of two; she’d written a letter for the PhD so must’ve been surprised, but hadn’t asked. I stared at the map a little more, but no particular stood out. I’d get over the Rockies, I figured, and camp first chance afterwards.

After sundown I’d often seen naught but long hauls, each a dot on the horizon that would split in two. As paint lines’d start to drown we’d swap off the brights. Not one had failed me, nor I them. On the road past Fort Nelson even in the day I was solely among friends.

There was a lodge thing with two pumps out front. The gas contraption was worn looking metal shaped like a grandfather clock, with numbers displayed in the way of an old alarm one for a bedside. Apparently no mechanism for card payment had fit the aesthetic. Two pickups sat parallel of the log walls, but beyond the window was pitch black and my courage bled out on the welcome mat. It was yet to use half the tank, just the staring at the map had worried me.

I don’t recall the way the mountain part looked in the light, except for flakes began to fall before the sun did; surely that was a sight. My modus operandi of roaring down straights, each limit taken as a hint for the next corner, started to be put to serious question: their eyes caught by the cone’s edge, a clump of bison’d passed ten yards off the right door. Back at the apartment the thought would’ve been appealing.

It’d been hours since a structure or rest-stop and cell towers were in the dust. From windblown crust, the moon’s image outlined ridges against the stars. The infinite darkness of pavement hooked past down the hill. I’d raised my arms and twirled a while when a beam of whitish yellow cut ’cross the night.

My companion hurtled at a speed caution forbade in the best of conditions, but I fell in line, knuckles white from catching up. A few thousand pounds of hair and muscle would hardly worry such a creation.

The labeled dot was still many miles away when an orange image lit between F and E on the dash. There’d be a station there, I tried to believe, as ahead red squares careened ’round another steep bank. Each minute was an age.

The look of the dirt road did little to corroborate my silent affirmations. I nodded a salute to the receding lights and crossed left into blackness. Down a ways was a rectangular gazebo next to what appeared like a gift shop. This pump was a less cohesive piece than the last, but the plastic slot atop the keypad was the most beautiful I’d ever seen. That was until I worked out the interface was vestigial and my joke too close to home.

I’d crawled into the bag when the crunch of tires came alongside and a flashlight cast the shadow of shirt-draped handlebars. Faces and uniforms came into focus, then vanished before I could lower my hand.

I awoke drenched, as if I’d wet myself. It seemed all might become solid any second and I’d meet my end in an episode of Scooby Doo. I scrambled the key to the slot and begged the fuel to be enough and the cold not to have got the electronics again.

My soaked clothes shed—they at least didn’t smell of urine—I struggled into long underwear and pulled over a coat and snow pants. No heat’d come off the engine yet so I drove a couple circles and parked near the woods. A trickle ran down my leg as I slithered back inside.

The gas held out ’til a beater brown Ford pulled up to the building. In behind the register, her look shared that no winter gear was containing a week without a shower. When the hose nozzle clicked, and flow took up, an interface display sprung on to count the gallons. Some life after all.