Science Fiction & Fantasy Remembrance

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  • Short Story Review: “Punishment Without Crime” by Ray Bradbury

    October 11th, 2025
    (Cover by Malcolm Smith. Other Worlds, March 1950.)

    Who Goes There?

    We’re keeping things short and sweet today, with a rather self-explanatory story by an author who has little need for an introduction. Ray Bradbury is one of those rare people who’s a canonical SF writer as well as having a place in the mainstream American literary canon; and yet this was by no means inevitable for Bradbury, who started out as a fan at the tail end of the ’30s, writing for niche publications. He spent the next few years honing his craft, until he began getting his first really good short fiction published in 1943, with the next decade being very productive. Bradbury advised young writers to try for one short story a week, a rule he himself seemed to abide for a while, since by by the time he was 27 he’d written more than enough short fiction for his first collection, Dark Carnival. Despite being known best for his science fiction, much of Bradbury’s early work has a horror bent to it, enough that he felt the need to update his first collection with a revised table of contents and a new title: The October Country. “Punishment Without Crime” was not printed in one of the famous collections, but it combines SF with horror and crime fiction in a way that encapsulates some of Bradbury’s interests—if also his shortcomings. It’s also the last in a trilogy of stories about Marionettes, Inc., a company that produces lifelike telepathic androids. Weirdly enough these were all published in different magazines, but each one seems to work as a standalone.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the March 1950 issue of Other Worlds Science Fiction. It’s been reprinted in Science Fiction Terror Tales (ed. Groff Conklin) and the Bradbury collections Long After Midnight, The Stories of Ray Bradbury, and Killer, Come Back to Me: The Crime Stories of Ray Bradbury.

    Enhancing Image

    It’s America in the 2000s, and middle-aged middle-class husbands still have not considered that it might be better to divorce one’s wife on grounds of adultery than to kill her. George Hill, our protagonist, at least apparently doesn’t consider divorce to be an option, since lately he’s been thinking about murdering Katherine, his wife. Katherine (or Katie) is about twenty years George’s junior, while George is about fifty, which might explain why Katie’s been having an affair with Leonard Phelps, who is, if nothing else, closer to her age. “Better men than he had taken young wives only to have them dissolve away in their hands like sugar crystals under water.” But still, George is too mannerly, and maybe too decent, to kill his wife; so instead he’s come to the next best thing, which is Marionettes, Inc. Sure, to have a doll, a simulacrum of Katie, and to “kill” this doll, is in itself illegal, but it beats doing the real thing, at least morally. That much should go without saying. What George doesn’t realize, though, is that confronting a simulacrum of his wife may prove just as deadly to him as if he had tried murdering the real Katie. “The violent unviolence. The death without death. The murder without murdering.” And so there might also be, ironically for George, punishment without crime.

    Sorry, I was trying out my Rod Serling voice.

    This is very much a Twilight Zone episode in spirit, never mind it was published almost a whole decade before TZ‘s premiere. Bradbury consciously fell in with the O. Henry school of short-story writing, which is to say his stories are often structures as akin to jokes, with a setup and a punchline. The punchline is often a cruel one. A contemporary of Bradbury’s, John Collier, wrote along the same lines, to the point where “Punishment Without Crime” could be taken as Bradbury paying homage to Collier, what with the strange preoccupation with husbands conspiring to murder their wives. Bradbury had very likely read some Collier stories by 1949, so it’s possible. (There’s a misoginistic streak running through some of Bradbury’s work that I don’t see people bring up, really.) Anyway, George gets what he asks for, but he also gets something a bit extra in the bargain, what with the doll, being telepathic and sentient to some degree, practically taunting him. This stretch of the story, in which George must reckon with his conflicting feelings about his wife via the fake Katie, is easily my favorite, even if it also quotes liberally from what I’m pretty sure is the Song of Songs. Then again, having George’s sexual insecurity be not only overt but the focal point of “Punishment Without Crime” would’ve been all but unthinkable for a genre SF story just five years earlier. You could get away with something like this in Weird Tales, but the SF magazines of the ’40s were relatively chaste (incidentally Weird Tales was where Bradbury really cut his teeth). There were also the crime fiction magazines, and more importantly the “slicks” (which Bradbury frequented), but “Punishment Without Crime” might’ve been too pulpy and at the same time SFnal for the latter.

    If Bradbury has a drawback, it’s that he seems to know only one woman: his wife. The gender politics here are rather off. The fake Katie is a femme fatale, of sorts, while the real Katie is implied to not be any better. Without giving away anything too specific in this section, the ending paints the real Katie as a ruthless schemer who really can’t be bothered if George lives or dies. Is this some weird future where you’re just not allowed to get divorced? Would it really be easier to kill your spouse than the other option? There will be legal trouble either way. Obviously I’m putting too much thought into it. This is a story that’ll take you maybe twenty minutes to read, and it’s written in that fast-paced breezy style Bradbury often used, the result being that even though I have issues with it, at least it goes down smoothly. If you’re a Bradbury fan then you’ll probably enjoy it.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    When George finally does “kill” the fake Katie, it works a little too well and is a little too convincing, with the Marionettes, Inc. people having even installed fake blood. Maybe it would be enough for George to just have a screw loose and to slip into psychosis over having wanted to murder his wife, but unfortunately for him his creator is Ray Bradbury. George and other clients of Marionettes, Inc. are promptly arrested afterward on charges of murder, even though nobody had actually been killed. As George’s lawyer explains it, it’s a damn shame that the government’s been cracking down on androids as of late, since had this all happened ten years earlier or even ten years later, he’d probably get off fine. As it is, George is sentenced to death, and while we’re not told how much time passes, it can’t be long before he’s on death row, waiting for the electric chair. He’s surprisingly calm about all this, since he’s had a psychotic break, but in a final ironic twist he sees the real Katie outside his cell one day and slips back into lucidity, having enough time to realize that he’s been massively screwed over by the system. It doesn’t matter. Katie’s off with her young boyfriend. Like I said, Bradbury tended to follow the O. Henry line of storytelling.

    A Step Farther Out

    For someone who’s read quite a bit of Bradbury over the years, I’ve become a bit more ambivalent towards him as I’ve gotten older. Not that he was ever in my top five SF authors or anything, but there’s something too whimsical and childish (in a bad way) about Bradbury’s writing that also reminds me of the worst of, say, Connie Willis, or Stephen King. Hokey? Saccharine? Whatever you wanna call it. Willfully immature. “Punishment Without Crime” is a curious combination of a few genres, on top of being clearly a moral allegory, but it doesn’t quite take advantage of any of its inspirations. It’s also too short and fast-paced to feel like something I should take seriously. I can believe it’s something Bradbury wrote in a week or less, then shuffled off to what was a second-rate magazine. Nowadays I like Bradbury most when he leans all the way into horror, hence my favorite stories tend to be in The October Country and The Illustrated Man.

    See you next time.

  • Short Story Review: “Rabbit Test” by Samantha Mills

    October 8th, 2025
    (Cover by Maxine Vee. Uncanny, Nov-Dec 2022.)

    Who Goes There?

    Samantha Mills made her debut in 2012, although she didn’t start getting published regularly until 2018. As she says in an interview for (the sadly now-defunct) Fantasy Magazine, which you can read here:

    Over the next few years, my attempts at novels improved rapidly, but short stories remained a mystery until 2017. I can’t fully describe what happened, but after a lot of reading it finally clicked, and I produced a few stories that worked, and I finally began submitting again.

    By this point Mills had been out of college for about a decade, so if you’re at such-and-such an age and worried it might be too late to try your hand at getting published professionally, it probably isn’t.

    I had said in my review forecast at the beginning of the month that Mills had probably written “Rabbit Test” prior to a certain infamous SCOTUS decision getting leaked in May 2022, but this turned out to be wrong. Mills, like any writer, had the idea of the real-life use of female rabbits for human pregnancy tests tumbling around in the back of her mind for years, but it took the catastrophic Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization decision for her to think of a story to go with it. She wrote “Rabbit Test” in the summer of 2022 and it quickly got picked up by Uncanny Magazine, who published it just a few months later. Turnarounds for story submissions are usually not this quick, but then “Rabbit Test” is, if nothing else, a deeply timely story, and Mills’s gambit paid off. “Rabbit Test” is only the third story ever to win the Hugo, Nebula, and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award, and it placed first in the Locus poll.

    I remember when awards season was underway and there was a lot of very good word-of-mouth regarding “Rabbit Test” online, which no doubt contributed to it sweeping. It’s a story that spoke incisively of “the moment” (although “the moment” is now three years behind us) in American politics, that worked to get a reaction out of left-liberal readers, and so it did. But, again, that was three years ago. How does it hold as a story, some time after its own “moment” has passed?

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the November-December 2022 issue of Uncanny Magazine, which you can read here. It’s since been reprinted in The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2023 (ed. R. F. Kuang) and Nebula Awards Showcase 58 (ed. Stephen Kotowych).

    Enhancing Image

    The year is 2091, and Grace, a normal girl about to turn 18, has a big problem in the form of an unwanted pregnancy. She had sex with her maybe-boyfriend before he goes away and now her rabbit test (not a test actually involving a rabbit) has come up positive. This would be bad enough on its own, but the America of 2091 is (at least in some ways) even worse off than today, with women’s menstrual cycles being tracked by an app, courtesy of Rabbit Test LMC. Of course, parents can watch over their underage daughters’ cycles like hawks, and this is all in the aftermath of a nationwide ban on abortion. Grace’s only real hope is to go to her friend Sal to mess with the app, causing a “blackout” long enough for Grace to procure some illicit abortion pills from “one of those old ladies who sells pill packs out of their closets, hoarded up from before the ban.” If she can get this thing taken care of without her Jesus-freak mom finding out then all will be well, more or less. Of course, things don’t go that way.

    Grace’s story only takes up about half of “Rabbit Test,” with the other half being a mix of real facts, narratives, and fictionalized vignettes that feed into the greater narrative about reproductive rights. To give Mills credit in a couple ways, she evidently spent much of her time (about a month, by her estimates) on the story by doing research, taking a crash course in the history of abortion, forcing miscarriages, pregnancy tests, and so on. That this is all readable while also being crammed into just over 7,000 words is in itself an achievement, although it’s about one step away from simply copy-pasting passages from actual research papers into your SF short story. What makes this all more impressive is that Mills is taking an intersectional feminist approach, plus a somewhat Marx-inspired understanding of historical forces, to make connections you probably wouldn’t make on your own; indeed these sections, kept away from the Grace narrative, are the closest “Rabbit Test” comes to letting the reader think for themself. We get, in a surprisingly short number of words, a brief history of methods for testing pregnancy, going from mice and rabbits to frogs, of women across different cultures and time periods using at-home methods of testing for pregnancy and (if the desire be there) forcing a miscarriage. It becomes clear that the issue of women’s reproductive rights is one that connects race and class conflict, as well as misogyny, perhaps the oldest of mankind’s evils against itself. This sounds like a lot, because it is.

    Meanwhile, Grace comes close to getting what she needs through a trans man named Ambrose (“Women aren’t the only people worried about their uteruses, and Ambrose saw the writing on the wall long before the 2084 ban passed.”), but it’s too late. Sal has ratted her out, apparently being unable to keep her mouth shut, and to say Grace’s mom is unhappy about all this would be an understatement. Grace is gonna have the baby, whether she wants to or not. I would feel more about this if we only barely got to know Grace as a person, and if Amelia, Grace’s mom, wasn’t a caricature of the sort you’d find in Stephen King’s writing.

    Get this:

    Amelia is marching because she fears being outnumbered. She’s marching because she believes it’s her duty to save babies and place them in homes with good Christian values, because the scientific establishment is out of control, a cabal of demons on Earth locking an entire generation out of salvation.

    On the one hand yes, there are people like Amelia in America today—at least several million, going by polls. This doesn’t make her any less of a cartoon character. Then again, nobody is allowed much development or interiority in “Rabbit Test,” since this isn’t that kind of story and goddamnit, we only have 7,000 words and change to get through everything. It’s effective shorthand on Mills’s part for letting us know Grace’s mom is a raving lunatic and that we should be worried about Grace’s safety, but it’s just that. Maybe the biggest message take from all this is that so many people, especially queer people (hey, at least Grace is straight and cis, as far as we know), would be better off if they moved out of their parents’ house as soon as possible. I’m being serious here, as someone whose mental health improved exponentially (putting the bouts of depression I still get aside) once I got a place of my own. Unfortunately, Grace don’t got the means.

    When I criticize Mills, just know that a part of me does feel bad, for at least two reasons: the first is that I can respect her rather far-left interpretation of history, as it’s one I more or less agree with. Then again, you might say I’m biased for that reason, and for my part I honestly can’t imagine any “pro-life” person reading “Rabbit Chest” and being convinced by Mills’s argument. The second reason is that if I wanted a story with this message to be more to my liking, I would basically be demanding a different kind of story almost altogether, one that leans much more into a show-don’t-tell approach. This is clearly not what Mills had in mind. So, I can take “Rabbit Test” for what it is or I can sit back and think about a quite different story it could’ve been, one which would’ve met my own specific tastes. Which is more fair? But obviously, even if I were to try to be fair all the way, I don’t see myself ever rereading “Rabbit Test” from start to finish. I consider a great short story to be one that the reader can go back to again and again over a span of years, and I’m not sure if Mills intended “Rabbit Test” to be read more than once. Despite the amount of research and talking points, and admittedly some good lines in there, there’s not much reason to go back to it. That’s not what I think of as being a top-tier story.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    Grace gives birth to a daughter, named Olivia, and eventually the two move out from under Amelia’s scornful gaze and get an apartment of their own. Despite having been desperate to abort her years earlier, Grace has come to love and care for her daughter, despite the two of them living on meager means. Unfortunately, almost as if like clockwork, disaster strikes again. It’s strongly implied that the teenaged Olivia got drugged and raped at a party, and while history doesn’t repeat itself, it does tend to rhyme. So it goes. The two are able to force a miscarriage, but it comes at a terrible price, as Grace is charged with murder and spends a couple decades in prison—for killing what would’ve been almost indistinguishable from a cat fetus. Finally, the year is 2119, and congress is close to reversing the nationwide abortion ban. We’re told that in the intervening years gay marriage had been banned nationwide, only for that decision to later be reversed. Presumably the same thing will happen with the abortion ban. Hopefully.

    The idea is that history works in cycles. Rights that were given at one time can just as easily be taken away in another, and also the other way around. For about half a century we in the US had the nationwide right to abortion, thanks to Roe v. Wade, but now we live in a post-Roe v. Wade world. As Mills says at the end, “it is never over.” Patriarchy and the subjugation of women is such an old human evil that it’s in the Bible, predating capitalism by centuries. Mills ultimately argues that women’s liberation is the omni-cause of human rights, and has been for a long time; but like any good intersectional feminist she knows the fight for women’s liberation ties into capitalism, racism, colonialism, and a few other -isms I’m not mentioning at the moment.

    A Step Farther Out

    I had read this story a couple days ago, and took some time to sit on it. I feel rather conflicted, because Mills succeeded in writing the kind of story she wanted to write; it’s just that I had wished “Rabbit Test” would be something other than what it is, which I understand is unfair. When I heard all these things about “Rabbit Test” I got the hunch it would be a didactic treatise on abortion rights, and it is indeed that. If anything it’s even more in-your-face than I was expecting. I agree with every point Mills makes here, so I feel like I’m at liberty to say this kind of story-as-treatise method doesn’t work for me. I could be wrong, but I don’t think “Rabbit Test” will be read and enjoyed thirty years from now in the way of, say, Terry Bisson’s “Bears Discover Fire” or even Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”—the latter also being on the didactic side and seemingly made in a lab to be forced on English students, but still enjoyable. Even Le Guin, when she’s trying to make a point, leaves enough room for the reader to think on it, so that they feel like they’re collaborating with the author.

    See you next time.

  • Short Story Review: “The Hungry House” by Robert Bloch

    October 4th, 2025
    (Cover by Malcolm Smith. Imagination, April 1951.)

    Who Goes There?

    Robert Bloch was something of a prodigy, with his first stories being published professionally when he was still in high school. He was also probably the youngest member of the Lovecraft circle, being correspondents with the man himself in the last few years of the latter’s life, and they were on such good terms that they even dedicated stories to each other. Bloch’s early work very much owed a debt to Lovecraft, but by the early ’40s he had matured into a different kind of horror writer, although mostly he still wrote in the supernatural mode for the rest of his career. This may come as a bit of a surprise to people who only know about Bloch through Psycho, which is horror but not supernatural, although the Bates house is certainly haunted in a metaphorical if not literal sense. Of course, we should not feel too bad for Bloch being known nowadays mostly for a single novel that’s also somewhat uncharacteristic of his oeuvre, since he made some big bucks out of it, and he also wrote for TV on top of his prose fiction, most famously a few spooky-themed Star Trek episodes.

    Horror was Bloch’s genre of choice, without question, although he did write SF on occasion, and funnily enough the last Bloch story I reviewed here, “The Movie People,” is fantasy but decidedly not horror. If “The Movie People” was Bloch attempting a sentimental fantasy sort of in the style of Ray Bradbury, then “The Hungry House” sees Bloch on his home turf, and is all the better for it. This is a classic haunted-house story with a morbid ending, which also feels distinctly modern in the sense that it feels like it could’ve only been written no earlier than the 20th century. The haunted-house story has a long lineage, going way back to the days of the original Gothic novel in the late 18th century, and Bloch does just enough here to distinguish his story from its many predecessors.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the April 1951 issue of Imagination. It’s been reprinted a fair number of times, including Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural (ed. Marvin and Saralee Kaye), The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories (ed. Ann and Jeff VanderMeer), and the Bloch collections Pleasant Dreams—Nightmares, The Best of Robert Bloch, and The Early Fears (Bloch really loved his wordplay).

    Enhancing Image

    Bloch does something clever from the outset in that he lets us know, in not so plain words, that this is meant to be taken as an allegory, since the protagonists, a married couple, are not given names, simply being referred to as “he” and “she.” The couple had bought a five-year lease on this house, which I’m not sure if this is a thing or not nowadays, since I’m not a homeowner (at least at this time) myself. Normally such a story would start with the couple moving in and discovering, gradually, that something is a bit off about their new home, but we start with the duo already being aware that they have a problem before briefly flashing back to when the trouble started. This is a nice way of getting us quickly up to speed on what kind of story this is, as Bloch seems to know that the reader is probably already familiar with haunted-house narratives; even in 1951 they were kind of old-hat. We also waste no time in being told why the couple can’t just move out, which is always the question one asks with this kind of story. “Why don’t they just leave?” And sell the house to whom? And how do they explain the issue to anyone, even their agent, whom we find out has a secret or two of his own. There’s a degree of self-awareness here that’s both indicative of when “The Hungry House” was written and of how deeply Bloch is familiar with his game. He knows, just as we know, what we’re in for; the question the remains as to the exact execution of it.

    He and she’s marriage is tested from the outside, by the fact that their house, or more specifically the mirrors in their house, is haunted. At different points they see a man, a young girl, and an old woman in the reflections of these windows (a window is a kind of mirror, after all) and mirrors. They know something is wrong and yet feel powerless before this ghostly power, doubly so because there’s gonna be a house-warming party that weekend and it’s not like they can make up a good-enough excuse for the guests. Their friends will be coming over, among them being Mr. Hacker, the agent who sold them the house in the first place. (I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a joke that his name is Hacker, being that he sold the house on a lie by way of omission.) The ensuing party sequence, in which we’re introduced to a bunch of well-dressed urbanites, reads like it could belong in literary fiction of the time, or SF that was being printed in Galaxy. This is a story about people who think rather highly of themselves, and are prone to follies we tend to associate with the upper-middle class, namely vanity and a pervasive itch to escape boredom. Bloch explicitly mentions the myth of Narcissus more than once, although an unspoken influence is no doubt The Picture of Dorian Gray, especially once we hear about the house’s backstory. A basic flaw with “The Hungry House,” which sadly is a weak spot with Bloch’s writing generally, is that it leans into misogyny, to the point where the misogynistic element is part of the story’s DNA. We even get the “Woman, thy name is vanity!” line, so that while people of either gender are susceptible to it in-story, Bloch also makes it out to be a decidedly feminine flaw.

    As is similarly the case with Psycho, all this trouble started because of a bitchy old woman. This house used to belong to the Bells, with Joe Bell building it back in “the sixties” (I have to think the 1860s), with his wife dying in childbirth and him being left to care for his daughter Laura. Laura grows up to be a wealthy spinster who stays young for decades, or at least appears to stay young, with the help of the mirrors in the house. She becomes so obsessed with her own beauty that she locks herself away from even her servants to focus on herself. However, when one of the servants breaks a mirror (dying in the process, although Laura doesn’t mind that part so much), the magic breaks as well, with Laura seeing herself as a horribly aged woman. (See what I mean by the Dorian Gray influence?) In despair she commits suicide, cutting her throat on the broken glass. The woman may have died in body, but apparently not in spirit, since she continues to be mistress of the manor years after her death. A few people, including a little girl who had gone missing, have met bad ends coming to this house. There’s some ambiguity as to how much the house has direct control over the people inside it and how much of it is merely illusion—you might say a trick of the light, thanks to the haunted reflections. The reflections are haunted, that much is certain, but Bloch (I think wisely) leaves it up to interpretation as to how much control Laura has over the house’s architecture. Granted that I don’t think it’s a very scary story, there’s enough cleverness and escalation of tension here to suffice.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    Hacker and the other party guests leave shaken but otherwise unscathed, but “he” and “she” are not so lucky. Part of me was hoping we would get a happy or even bittersweet ending, but I suppose it had to end this way. To give Our Heroes™ some credit, they make the bright decision that breaking all the mirrors in the house would at least nerf Laura’s power, although (of course) it turns out they had forgotten about one important thing: you can find your reflection in more than just mirrors and windows. Laura’s power lurks in any reflection, including water, and even a pool of fresh blood. It’s predictable, especially for Bloch, who has a soft spot for this kind of morbid conclusion, but I do like how the water pipe bursting could be taken as either a freak accident that just so happens to benefit Laura or something she willed to happen. There’s a raw paranoia here that heightens the story’s scare factor, even if structurally it’s easy enough to figure out in advance, because the villain can work through damn near anything and nothing that can reflect one’s face is to be trusted.

    A Step Farther Out

    I’ll be honest, when I heard of “The Hungry House” I thought it’d be about a house that literally eats people, but thankfully this turned out not to be the case. Oh sure, the house consumes people, in a kind of metaphorical sense, but it’s more of an old-school haunted-house narrative with that trademark touch of modern self-awareness that Bloch is known for. It may read as a bit creaky and predictable today, but this would not have been so much the case back in 1951. What I can’t help but think about is that Bloch, who remained a regular at Weird Tales until its demise (well, its first demise) in 1953, could not get “The Hungry House” published there, but instead went to the ostensibly SF-focused Imagination, which may or may not have paid as well. I wonder why that happened.

    See you next time.

  • Things Beyond: October 2025

    October 1st, 2025
    (Cover by Wayne Barlowe. Asimov’s, June 1984.)

    There’s something about October that brings a change in me. It could be that autumn has now unambiguously started, as opposed to just going by the autumnal equinox. The weather is now colder and dryer. My hands and nose are getting dry, the latter occasionally resulting in a nosebleed. I now feel like I can put on a hoodie and jog around the city. The trees will start being stripped of their leaves. Overall it’s a time of changes, mostly for the better. October is also the month of Halloween, which is far and away my favorite holiday, to the point where it might the only one I really get festive about. Now is the time for watching horror movies, from the classices to some grade-A schlock. Time to catch up on some horror reads I’ve accumulated on my shelf. Time for pumpkin spice lattes, if you’re into that. In other words, this is for me what Christmastime is for some people—mind you that I tend to get depressed around Christmas.

    For this month we’re back to reviews at regular intervals, all short stories, all featuring thrills, chills, and assorted horrors. For the first time in a while I’m actually excited with what I’m gonna be writing about. Hopefully you’ll be joining me in reading at least a few of these.

    We have one story from the 1940s, three from the ’50s, three from the ’80s, one from the ’90s, and one from the 2020s.

    For the short stories:

    1. “The Hungry House” by Robert Bloch. From the April 1951 issue of Imagination. Bloch was correspondents with H. P. Lovecraft when the former was still in high school, and this friendship had an apparent influence on Bloch’s early fiction. While he’s most famous for writing Psycho, which is non-supernatural horror, most of Bloch’s work involves ghouls, cosmic horrors, and whatnot.
    2. “Rabbit Test” by Samantha Mills. From the November-December 2022 issue of Uncanny Magazine. Winner of the Hugo, Nebula, and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award, being only the third story ever to win all three. Mills debuted in 2016, with her debut novel published in 2024. “Rabbit Test” was the last of a streak of short stories, as Mills stopped writing short fiction for three years.
    3. “Punishment Without Crime” by Ray Bradbury. From the March 1950 issue of Other Worlds Science Fiction. Being one of the most famous American authors ever, it can be easy to forget that Bradbury started writing for the genre magazines, not all of them being of the first rate. He also wrote so much horror early in his career that only a fraction of it appeared in The October Country.
    4. “Lost Memory” by Peter Phillips. From the May 1952 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. I had ever heard of Peter Phillips before, which might be because he was only active for a short time, from about 1948 to 1958. He stopped writing SF for reasons I’m not sure of. He was also British, at a time when there weren’t too many active in the field, even appearing in the inaugural issue of New Worlds.
    5. “Yellowjacket Summer” by Robert McCammon. From the October 1986 issue of Twilight Zone Magazine. McCammon made his debut in 1978, but it took him a bit to come to the forefront of contemporary horror fiction. His massive post-apocalyptic novel Swan Song tied for the inaugural Stoker for Best Novel. Disillusionment with the industry made him step away from writing for a decade.
    6. “Bloodchild” by Octavia E. Butler. From the June 1984 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction. Winner of the Hugo and Nebula for Best Novelette. This is a reread for me, but I’ve been meaning to return to it for a close read for a minute. Butler wrote only maybe a dozen short stories, but they’ve received a disproportinate amount of praise, with her winning Hugos for short fiction twice consecutively.
    7. “Reckoning” by Kathe Koja. From the July 1990 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Koja debuted in the late ’80s with a pretty strong string of short stories before her debut novel, The Cipher, hit stores in 1991. She was a formiddable horror talent in the ’90s, but in the 2000s onward took to writing novels aimed at young readers, and she hasn’t written much generally lately.
    8. “Day of Judgment” by Edmond Hamilton. From the September 1946 issue of Weird Tales. While he’s most known as a pioneer of space opera, as well as his Captain Future series, Hamilton appeared frequently in Weird Tales from the beginning of his career, sometimes with SF but also sometimes with fantasy and horror. He was an old-school pulp writer in that he wrote for basically any market.
    9. “The Pear-Shaped Man” by George R. R. Martin. From the October 1987 issue of Omni. Winner of the Stoker for Best Long Fiction. Martin is a case where a series (A Song of Ice and Fire) of his is so famous that it overshadows the rest of his work, which mind you is considerable. Martin’s gone on record as thinking of himself as instincively a horror writer, a fact which is on display here.

    We have pretty much an all-star cast of authors here, so I hope this will help my recent writing slump. Of course, the most important thing is that we have fun with this. Happy Halloween.

  • Serial Review: Under Pressure by Frank Herbert (Part 3/3)

    September 28th, 2025
    (Cover by H. R. Van Dongen. Astounding, January 1956.)

    The Story So Far

    John Ramsey is a gifted psychologist on an assignment from Bu-Psych, to play the role of the new electronics officer for the Fenian Ram, a subtug that’s out to raid oil in enemy territory, just off Siberia. This is the 21st century, and not only has the Cold War gotten a bit warmer, but oil has become an increasingly precious resource. The last twenty subtug missions have ended in failure, with the higher-ups suspecting there are “sleepers” aboard these submarines—spies who are sabotaging things from the inside. Ramsey’s job is twofold: to sniff out a possible spy among the Ram‘s small crew, and to evaluate Sparrow, the Ram‘s captain. Sparrow has been shown to be an incredible captain, but he also seems to have a bit of a screw loose, being a Bible-spouting borderline psychotic who expects nothing less than the utmost devotion from his crew. The other crew are Bonnett and Garcia, who’ve been on the Ram for many months by now. Ramsey is an outsider here, which already puts him at a disadvantage, never mind that he has to keep his real profession a secret.

    Another problem is that being in a submarine means there’s no such thing as a minor accident, especially when it comes to dealing with enemy patrols. Of course the Ram is totally outmanned and outgunned against the wolf packs that are patrolling the Pacific, so the only option is evasive action. After a close call with the enemy, Sparrow falls ill from radiation sickness for a time, meanwhile the rest of the crew are unsure as to where they stand with each other. There’s the growing sense that somebody here is a spy, and the cards are stacked against Ramsey since he’s fresh meat. For better or worse Garcia has also figured out that Ramsey is a psychologist who has some ulterior motive for hopping aboard the Ram. The two have a kind of mutual respect, if also ambivalence mixed with paranoia. The last installment ended with Bonnett, having misconstrued Ramsey helping with the ship for planting a “spybeam,” jumping the gun and beating Ramsey within an inch of his life. Does this mean Bonnett is really the spy? Is everyone a little too tightly wound with this mission? I would know the answers, considering I’ve read the final installment or else I wouldn’t be here.

    Enhancing Image

    Surprise! Turns out Garcia is the spy, although how this is revealed is a bit odd; I don’t mean this in a bad way. Prior to the actual reveal Garcia implies, in a conversation with Ramsey, that he’s become tired of working for the Soviets, or more accurately he’s become tired of being a spy, but also knows that it’s too late to turn back now. If he’s caught then he would be tried and most likely executed for espionage. Interestingly, Herbert would’ve written Under Pressure in the wake of the Rosenbergs being tried and executed as spies, which in the age of McCarthyism was a major blow to civil liberties in the US. There was a crackdown on those suspected of having Soviet or generally leftist sentiments, and while Herbert was not a leftist at all, he held a long-standing disdain for government. Garcia is technically the closest thing the novel has to a villain, by virtue of being on the Soviets’ payroll, and yet Herbert writes him sympathetically. I’m not totally sure how this flew over John W. Campbell’s head, given that Campbell was a committed hawk during the Cold War and Under Pressure is evidently ambivalent about the conflict. It’s not unusual to find SF from the era that takes a rather neutral or ambivalent stance on the Cold War, but that’s usually reserved for stuff published in other magazines, and there’s a moral greyness here that is not often seen in SF published in Astounding at the time. I have to admit I didn’t expect that from Herbert.

    Of course, stuck between either dying in the Ram or being taken back to the States for the gas chamber, Garcia opts for the former, dying from a heavy dose of radiation, with the wish that his family at least be provided for after his death. Sparrow, a man who prays for the souls of his enemies even as he goes up against them in battle, takes Garcia up on this, although we’re told at the end that the government killed two birds with one stone by giving Garcia’s widow a position so that they can keep an eye on her. There’s a touch of cynicism in what is otherwise a happy ending—just enough to satisfy Herbert’s own tendency toward cynicism, but not enough to scare Campbell. As for Sparrow, there’s a curious insight about how he’s psychologically unfit to live on land, but perfectly adapted to life in a submarine, in the sense that he’s married to the job. What counts as being mentally unfit? It’s a matter of perspective. Sparrow is so attached to the Ram that it’s like a second skin, or like his natural environment. I’ve noticed that in the years leading up to the space race escalating, there was some speculation in SF about the psychology of the astronaut, and how an astronaut might be changed mentally by life in a tin can, in zero gravity; but Herbert posits the same question about people who work in submarines, a question that has only become more pertinent with the invention of long-range nuclear subs. You don’t see this specific kind of speculation often in fiction.

    A Step Farther Out

    Only been, what, a couple weeks since I last posted here? Feels like it hasn’t been that long on my end. Then again, I was posting every few days here up until recently, and since I can look at the numbers, I can tell you that I’ve written a lot for this site. A fair bit of time and effort with relatively few returns, except of course the pleasure of (sometimes) reading fiction that is in itself enjoyable. I’m nothing if not a compulsive reader; in fact while I’ve mostly taken a break this month from writing, I never stopped reading, say, two or three books at a time.

    Well, Under Pressure is a pretty decent serial, to the point where I can see how reviewers in 1956 saw it as an impressive debut from Herbert. For his part Herbert wouldn’t properly follow up Under Pressure (or The Dragon in the Sea as it’s also called) for nearly a decade, but when he did it would be the beginning of maybe the single most famous SF book series of all time. I do recommend Under Pressure if you’re into old-school hard SF that has also aged better than a lot of stuff from that time period, although your mileage may vary with regards to Herbert’s writing quirks, some of which are very much present here.

    See you next time.

  • Serial Review: Under Pressure by Frank Herbert (Part 2/3)

    September 14th, 2025
    (Cover by Frank Kelly Freas. Astounding, December 1955.)

    The Story So Far

    John Ramsey is a gifted psychologist, part of the Bureau of Psychology, who’s given the unenviable assignment of surveying the crew of the subtug Fenian Ram, and especially its captain. Captain Sparrow is on the one hand the master of his ship, and his performance on the job has been off the charts; but he’s also a Christmonger, and the higher-ups fear he might be a little too unhinged. Meanwhile there’s also the suspicion that there’s a spy aboard the submarine, which is a bit odd considering the crew (minus Ramsey) is a total of three men, all of whom have known each other for months. Still. Ramsey takes a crash course in a submarine’s layout and becomes the fourth crewman, as the new electronics officer. (The last one had lost his mind.) Of course, Ramsey’s job as psychologist is kept secret from the others, as well as the fact that he’s here to sniff out a potential rat. You have Captain Sparrow as well as Bonnett and Garcia, with Bonnett being Sparrow’s right-hand man and Garcia being a practicing but rather pessimistic Catholic. Sparrow is fond of spouting prayers and Bible verses, to the point where if I were in Ramsey’s position I would just assume the man was totally psychotic. But that’s just me. There is indeed a whiff of religious mania in the air, but rather than immediately cause problems this instead constributes to a kind of synergy among the three crewmen. Ramsey is the odd one out; his contributions to the team add a degree of tension presumably not there before, and what’s worse is that at one point Ramsey comes to the realization that he’s afraid of being underwater.

    While set in the 21st century, actually around the same time as [current year], Under Pressure takes place in a world where the Cold War has gone a bit hot and East and West and battling under the seas for control of oil. Frank Herbert seems to have a fondness for narratives about factions fighting over a precious resource. The Fenian Ram is a top-performing subtug, and she’ll need to be considering the previous twenty subs that have been on this raid have failed—indeed destroyed. We’re in the depths of the sea, off the coast of Siberia, in enemy territory, where Soviet wolf packs have been picking off American subs and, the top brass suspects, there may be a spy sabotaging these subs. For some reason damn near every SF writer in the business at the time thought the Cold War would go on for a century or more, with the exception of John Brunner and one or two others. Sure, the Cold War lasted a while, but it seems nobody had speculated that the Soviet Union would dissolve as early as it did.

    Enhancing Image

    Much of the first installment is concerned with setting up the context for this undersea voyage, as well as the crew. Now that we’ve become acclimated it’s time for some sweet submarine-on-submarine action, of the sort you may have seen watching Das Boot. (I’m sorry that I’ve mentioned that movie more than once at this point, but in my defense, it is the gold standard for the niche subgenre that is submarine media.) The second installment is a lot heavier on action, which ironically means there’s a lot less for me to talk about. If you’ve been reading my posts for at least a few months then you know I’m not very good at writing about action, nor am I even good at recapping what happens. When it comes to reading fiction I’m about ideas, characters, dialogue, and individual moments, which is probably why I’ve been a Thomas Pynchon fan since college. (Try not to hold that against me.) Thankfully, while he does have weaknesses as a writer (his tendency to jump from one character’s internal monologue to another without pause can be grating at times, and he was by no means a poet), Herbert has a talent for giving what is at least on paper a simple scenario a layer of complexity. Think about it: we’re stuck in this submarine for most of the novel, and with a small set of characters the whole time, none of whom are all that likable. Like sure, Ramsey is not as suspect as the others, but that’s because a) he’s the protagonist, b) he really does wanna do the right thing, and c) he’s not a Jesus freak. Even while these characters are prone to bickering and having tirades, it’s a setting that perfectly calls for such things. When a close call with some enemy subs leads to Sparrow getting a case of radiation sickness and lying in the infirmary for a time, you get the sense that while it wouldn’t happen at this point, if only for the sake of the plot, it’s very possible that a freak incident can leave this little ship without a captain. Everything can go to hell in a second, and it nearly does.

    Things are tense while Sparrow is recovering, and even when he resumes control the situation doesn’t lighten any. It becomes apparent to everyone that one of them is probably out to sabotage the subtug, so that there are always two people awake to keep watch on each other. (It does not occur to them, of course, that there could be two spies.) The first revelation is that Garcia has somehow found out that Ramsey is a psychologist and not really an electronics officer by trade, even calling him a “head thumper.” This sparks an uneasy agreement between them, because it would be inconvenient for Sparrow especially to discover that Ramsey’s been sent here to check his head. The second revelation comes at the very end of the installment when Bonnett, having been roused into zealotry by Sparrow and convinced Ramsey is suspect, misunderstands the situation and almost punches Ramsey’s lights out before the latter can even get a word in. Something I have to say about Under Pressure that I usually don’t get to say about SF of this vintage is that I’m really not sure how this is supposed to play out in the final act. All three men are suspect in some way, and of course Ramsey himself could be secretly working for the other side, although I would be much peeved if that were the case considering we’ve been given insight into his thought processes. At that point I’d feel like Herbert was cheating. This also goes for Sparrow, to a lesser extent, since he’s the other character whose internal monologue we’re let in on throughout the novel. Herbert is rather inconsistent about how much attention each man’s internal monologue gets and at what points we’re allowed to read their thoughts, which is a problem that would haunt Herbert for decades.

    A Step Farther Out

    I had actually read this installment about a week ago, but didn’t feel motivated to write about it until recently. You’d think giving myself time to focus on other things would mean that at some point I’d be really itching to hop back on the horse that is writing, but this is not so. The problem with writing is that in order to be effective you have to work at it at least somewhat regularly or else you will lose the touch, so in that way it’s like how you ought to hit the gym at least a few days a week. I also seem to have not gained any extra insight into what Herbert’s doing with this novel, which I might add is looking to be a pretty solid debut novel, since I finished this installment. My initial thoughts and feelings didn’t change or expand, which disappointed me. It was just a matter of sitting down for a couple hours and pushing out some words. Don’t worry, I’ll have finished reviewing this serial by the end of the month.

    See you next time.

  • Things Beyond: September 2025

    September 1st, 2025
    (Cover by Frank Kelly Freas. Astounding, December 1955.)

    It could be that I’ve simply had too much on my plate, or that I’ve been procrastinating with my projects, but I’ve been feeling sluggish and unfulfilled with my writing as of late. Even in writing this forecast post I feel… uninspired. The drive is not currently in me. Actually the drive has not been there for several days now, which hasn’t stopped me from getting a couple things done. There is a difference, however, between writing like you’re in the midst of a fever and writing as a kind of chore, and it’s felt like the latter too often as of late.

    So, I figured it was time I take a break from this site for a month, for the most part. I will still be finishing my review of Under Pressure, and will be writing one or two editorials over the course of this month, but otherwise I’ll stepping away from here momentarily. I have too much going on, and I feel as if I’m the verge of utterly burning myself out with how productive I’ve tried to be, even with missing a couple deadlines. (I might still write a review of The Sorcerer’s Ship sometime this month, but needless to say I could not even start my review, let alone have it posted, yesterday.) I continue to write, often without motivation or imagination, because I really feel like I can’t do anything else. Writers, as opposed to people who write, are like actors, in that they do what they do because they feel helpless or impotent when it comes to other talents. I’m a writer. Unfortunately I don’t even make money from writing, as it stands; maybe if I were to train myself to write fiction, to be published in some of the magazines I take material from for this very site, then I could make some money on top of my meager earnings from my day job. Considering how things are going, it could be that in time I might not even have a choice. I might have to branch out into fiction, and take even more time away from this site, because I might have to do it. But who knows, it might be fulfilling in its own right.

    Sometimes I feel like a pastor in an empty church, or with only a few congregates, plus the rats and pigeons. Who am I speaking to? I don’t have much of an audience, and some of the people who say they read my stuff are themselves bloggers, also concerned with traffic for their own projects. It’s a problem that SFF fandom has had for a long time, and I don’t see any way of fixing it. Most fans I know don’t engage with this sort of thing. A lot of people who vote in the fan categories, when it comes time for the Hugos each year, are themselves fan writers, artists, etc. We’re voting for each other. I’m speaking to people who know what it’s like, which is both a good and bad thing. I feel so horribly alone, most of the time, and the time and energy I put into this hobby sometimes only worsen the loneliness and anxiety. I had started this site three years ago as a way to cope with some mental health struggles, but it doesn’t always help.

    So I’m taking a break this month, for the most part. There will be a few posts, but I aside from Under Pressure and maybe The Sorcerer’s Ship I don’t feel like writing about any magazine fiction until next month. Maybe I deserve a break like this, but mostly I just feel that I need it. I won’t be entirely gone, so don’t miss me too much.

  • Serial Review: Under Pressure by Frank Herbert (Part 1/3)

    August 29th, 2025
    (Cover by H. R. Van Dongen. Astounding, November 1955.)

    Who Goes There?

    Frank Herbert is one of the most famous authors in the whole history of SF, despite the fact that most of his output continues to wallow in obscurity. How did this happen? He was born in 1920 in Washington State, raised Catholic but taking to Buddhism as an adult, served a brief stint (only six months) in the Navy during World War II, this last part being relevant to today’s story. He started out as a journalist and came to writing science fiction relatively late, already being in his thirties when his first SF story was published in 1952. A few years later and we got his first novel, serialized as Under Pressure and published in book form as The Dragon in the Sea. But that’s no what people know Herbert for. When it seemed like he was about to be another second-tier writer, doomed to be forgotten, Herbert struck gold with the serial Dune World, in Analog, which was very popular, along with its sequel serial Prophet of Dune. Both short novels, totaling eight installments, were then fused into one big novel, Dune, which became a bestseller overnight and which took home both the Hugo and the inaugural Nebula for Best Novel. The rest is history.

    Of course, it’s not as simple as all that. Herbert had conducted an enormous amount of research for Dune, with this first novel in what would become a wide-spanning series taking years to gestate—unusual for genre SF at the time. Herbert wrote other novels over the next couple decades, but Dune was the thing that kept his name in the papers and on people’s minds, and indeed, even taking its faults into account, Dune was a revolutionary novel for the field. Herbert himself is a figure of some controversy, from his appropriating of Islamic culture to his well-documented homophobia to the question of whether or not he was even a good writer. Did he just happen to get lucky? I have to admit, being a third into Under Pressure, I do think there was at least some talent there.

    Placing Coordinates

    Serialized in Astounding Science Fiction, November 1955 to January 1956. It was published in book form later in 1956 as The Dragon in the Sea, revised somewhat (the language is a bit saltier, for one) but otherwise the same novel as its magazine counterpart. It’s still in print, I think, although truth be told I’ve never encountered anything Herbert that isn’t Dune-related in the wild. Has anyone seen a copy of this thing?

    Enhancing Image

    I assume most if not everyone reading this has already read Dune, which means we’re already aware of Herbert’s writing quirks, and you’ll be pleased (or maybe not) to know some of them have already manifested in Under Pressure. Well, the good news is that this is a much smaller novel than Dune, in both length and the scope of the action. We’re not given a whole world to play with, but instead the cramped and claustrophobic world of an atomic submarine—as envisioned in the 1950s, of course. Whereas it takes seemingly forever for Paul Atreides to emerge as the “hero” of Dune, we’re immediately met with our protagonist for Under Pressure in the form of John Ramsey. Ramsey is trained as an electronic officer, but his real job and profession is as a psychologist, an ensign from BuPsych (the Bureau of Psychology) assigned to the subtug whose crew is rated as the likeliest to succeed on an upcoming oil raid. This is important for two reasons: first is that in the 21st century (around what is now the present, actually), oil has become an increasingly precious resource, with the Western and Eastern (they never say “Soviets,” but we’re clearly meant to understand the East as the Soviets) fighting for control of this resource; the second is that of the last twenty Hell Diver missions, with these subtug oil raiders, all twenty missions ended in failure. A subtug crew is very small, only four men, and with the three men aboard this one BuPsych suspects there’s a “sleeper” among them—a spy who sabotages the submarine. So you have three highly qualified men, including their captain, but one of them is (probably) a traitor.

    It’s here that we’re introduced to the crew, that being Captain Sparrow and his men Garcia and Bonnett. Sparrow is sort of an Ahab or maybe Nemo figure, whom BuPsych suspects of having a screw loose, but he’s also shown to be a highly capable skipper. Garcia is a Hispanic Catholic, which is curious because I would’ve expected the subtug’s crew to be all white Americans instead of mostly. Then there’s Bonnett, whom Ramsey nails as having an inferiority complex due to being raised in an orphanage. I should mention at this point that Ramsey is a psychologist of the sort you’d expect to see in pop culture in the post-war years, which is to say he’s clearly read a ton of Freud and Jung. Under Pressure is not nearly as aggressively Freudian as some other SF works from the era, at least not yet, although I’m not sure how much of that boils down to censorship from being printed in Astounding. Magazines at the time were generally more prudish than book publishers, but this was doubly the case with magazines John W. Campbell edited. Looking at the magazine and book texts of Under Pressure, there are immediately some small but still noticeable differences. For example, at the beginning in the magazine version, Ramsey calls a snooty secretary a snob, while in the book version he calls her a bitch. Maybe if Under Pressure had been serialized in Galaxy the mildly salty language would’ve stayed, but Herbert’s brand of SF is maybe a bit too hard-nosed for that magazine. Indeed the most impressive part of this novel, aside from Herbert’s estbablishing a setting that is suffocating both physically and mentally, it’s that Under Pressure reads more as speculative fiction than science fiction. Granted that I’m not even slightly an expert on submarines and have only an elementary knowledge of nautical terminology, it’s impressive that Herbert is able to make the reader feel as if they’re learning about subs while at the same time reading a psychologically gripping adventure story.

    So Under Pressure is what might be called edutainment, which is a lable I don’t see used often nowadays, but back in the pre-internet days (and indeed in the early days of the internet, i.e., my childhood) there was a whole school of pop science that worked to educate the layman while also being entertainment. Hard SF is arguably a kind of edutainment, with the caviat that hard SF, being still a kind of SF, must out of necessity work on the basis of at least One Big Lie™. The author has to fudge the numbers or put their thumb on the scales to make something SFnal. Hal Clement admitted this much in an essay that accompanied the serialization of Mission of Gravity. Incidentally, a big reason Herbert’s novel works as edutainment is that Ramsey, who for much of this is our eyes and ears, has to learn about the minutia of the subtug at the same time as the reader. He’s given a five-week crash course in being an electronics officer aboard a sub with only four crewmen, all the while reading up on his shipmates so that he can better figure out if one of them is about to crack, or if one of them is the spy the government’s looking for. Not only does Ramsey have to sniff out the spy, but he’s keeping his job as psychologist a secret from the crew. Thus we’re introduced to a game of cat and mouse, made more intense because Sparrow and Garcia are religious men and Sparrow even more so is prone to episodes of Bible-quoting religious mania.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    The crew discover the tucked-away corpse of the former electronics officer, who may or may not have committed suicide, but otherwise there’s not too much action in this installment. The big realization Ramsey comes to by the end is that he is quite likely to die on this mission, either through sabotage with the subtug or one of the crew killing him outright. The problem with being in a submarine is that you’re hundreds of leagues below the ocean’s surface, so that there’s no such thing as a “small” mishap aboard ship. If you’ve watched Das Boot then you have an idea as to the mortality rates of submarine crews during WWII, and while the future war of Under Pressure is clearly based off the Cold War instead, the risk has not gone down much. This first installment ends with a kind of bewildering nightmare sequence, in which Ramsey’s fears of dying in the dephs of the ocean come to the surface. It’s a reminder that Herbert can be a creepy bastard, and also that despite his tendency to jump between characters’ heads, namely Ramsey and Sparrow’s he understands psychological drama.

    A Step Farther Out

    As someone who is a bit of a Herbert skeptic, I have to say I’ve been enjoying this quite a bit. We’ll see where it goes.

    See you next time.

  • Short Story Review: “The Woman of the Wood” by A. Merritt

    August 25th, 2025
    (Cover by C. Barker Petrie, Jr. Weird Tales, August 1926.)

    Who Goes There?

    A couple years ago I was supposed to review A. Merritt’s novel The Dwellers in the Mirage, although I couldn’t get far into it before admitting defeat. It could be because I was reading it as it appeared in Fantastic Novels, a magazine with a type size intended for ants and other insects, but I was struggling with it. At the time I knew I would have to give Merritt another shot at some point, not least because of his reputation in the field—or, more accurately, his lack of a reputation nowadays. Abraham Merritt only wrote eight novels and small number of short stories, which for someone who wrote pulp fiction is borderline miniscule, but in fact he had such a well-paying day job that he felt not the need to write much fiction. He worked as assistant editor and later editor of The American Weekly, a Sunday newspaper whose top positions paid a pretty good deal. (Making it as a journalist a century ago meant a lot more than it does now, in the sense that you could afford a house without taking on a second job.) Merritt basically quit writing fiction after 1934 to focus on his lucrative career, resulting in a writing career that lasted not quite twenty years. As with close contemporary Edgar Rice Burroughs, Merritt didn’t start writing fiction until he was in his thirties; but once he picked it up, he found a good deal of success with it as well. Merritt cultivated such a devoted following that he’s one of a very small group of people to have a genre magazine named after him, the short-lived A. Merritt’s Fantasy Magazine.

    Yet Merritt’s reputation dwindled in the years following his death in 1943, with naysayers popping up rather early on. In one of his books of criticism, I forget which piece exactly, James Blish calls Merritt a lousy writer. While such an assessment is more often true than not when it comes to once-beloved genre writers from so long ago (E. E. Smith was indeed a pretty bad writer, and his immense influence on the field is thus hard to account for), this judgment of Merritt seems harsh to me. It’s telling that Merritt was one of the first people to be inducted posthumously into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame, then was “awarded” the Cordwainer Smith Rediscovery Award in 2009. His stuff only seems to be kept in print by small independent presses, and I’m actually unsure if even all his novels are in print. He also wrote few short stories, with “The Woman of the Wood” being his only original appearance in Weird Tales. Merritt’s work was frequently reprinted in the genre magazines of the time, but he was originally published in the general pulps, namely Argosy.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the August 1926 issue of Weird Tales, and later reprinted in the January 1934 issue. It’s also been reprinted in the first issue of Avon Fantasy Reader, A Treasury of Modern Fantasy (ed. Terry Carr and Martin H. Greenberg), The Fantasy Hall of Fame (ed. Robert Silverberg and Martin H. Greenberg), and the Merritt collection The Fox Woman and Other Stories. It’s in the public domain now, which means you can read it however, although it’s not been transcribed for Project Gutenberg in the US as of yet. Very little of Merritt’s public-domain work is there.

    Enhancing Image

    McKay, an American World War I veteran, has come to the mountains of France in need of some fresh air. A pilot in the war, McKay had apparently joined the French forces and later the Americans, once they entered the war; but while he served honorably, the experience left him shell-shocked. “The war had sapped him, nerve and brain and soul. Through all the years that had passed since then the wound had kept open.” This is, of course, Merritt telling us upfront that we ought to take McKay’s testimony of the strange events to follow with a grain of salt. Indeed, McKay not entirely having his mental screws in place is key to the story working, or else it would sound even more ridiculous than it already does. McKay is quite different from his creator, being a war veteran while Merritt was not, but both men are what we might call eccentrics, and both also have green thumbs. McKay would be perfectly happy as a gardener, such that he seems to get along better with plants than people, and like Bob Ross he has a tendency to bestow human personality on the birch and pine trees of the Vosages. He’s staying at a lodge, owned by an unnamed inn-keeper and his wife, on the edge of a lake, with only one other human habitation at that forested lake—that being the house of Polleau and his two sons.

    Polleau and his sons are the descendants of serfs who lived off the land generations ago, but they’ve been feuding with their surroundings such that several members of their family have befallen to bizarre tree-related accidents. Now they are the last of their kind. Given that McKay repeatedly equate the trees with royalty and medieval figures, it’s easy to picture the last of the serfs going up against a legion of nobility (or so Merritt/McKay thinks) from centuries past, in a France which has not had a monarch for many years at this point. When one of the sons tries cutting down a birch (the birch trees are given feminine qualities), McKay witnesses something very strange indeed: the trees seem to fight back. The birch, wounded, lies on a neighboring fir “as though it were a wounded maid stretched on breast, in arms, of knightly lover.” Something I’ll say in Merritt’s favor is that while he’s fond of using certain words over and over, he has a knack for evocative imagery that’s a step above most other people submitting to Weird Tales at the time. The cast is small, and it become apparent pretty soon where Merritt is gonna take the plot, but the setting is well-realized, and there’s an intense earthiness to it that reads like a pulpier and perhaps less scary Algernon Blackwood. I have no doubt that Merritt would’ve read his fair share of Blackwood, considering he was big into reading on the occult and both authors have a shared fondness for rural spaces. “The Woman of the Wood” was by no means the first “Nature fights back” story, probably not even the first to be published in Weird Tales that year, but it’s redeemed by Merritt’s knack for setting and tone.

    One of the sons lose an eye in the ordeal, which was a bit more violent than I was expecting, but also it’s unsurprising that a) this conflict between man and tree is a bit more literal than would be deemed realistic, and b) McKay sympathizes a lot more with the trees. Later he is tormented, or maybe just haunted, by a small army of birches come to life as ghostly women, which is how I imagine we got the cover for this magazine issue. The trees tempt McKay to “slay” (they keep using that word specifically for a while, which makes the proceedings just a bit hard to take seriously) the Polleau family for them. Since the closest we have to a human woman in the story is the inn-keeper’s wife, who doesn’t say much, the estrogen quota will have to be met in the form of sly and vaguely slutty tree spirits. The spirits of the forest are not exactly evil, nor are they really good, but simply wanting to retaliate against a small but passionate force of deforestation. It does not seem to occur to anyone, even Polleau himelf, that the old man and his sons should probably make plans to move out of the mountains; but then, considering what we see of them, it wouldn’t be surprising that their pride would make moving out of the question. As is typical of weird fiction, and also pulp writing generally at the time, there’s an appeal more to emotions than the brain. That Merritt can delay the reader in thinking about the logical issues of the setting is to the story’s benefit, not really a negative. That McKay himself is shown to be in a fragile mental state to begin with also makes his extreme actions in the climax easier to understand.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    The really crazy part, which might be the one thing I wasn’t expecting in terms of the story itself (putting style and pacing aside), is that McKay gets away with murder. Yeah, he shivs one of the sons in the goddamn neck, in a kind of tree-induced rage, actually rips out the guy’s throat with the knife (it should be sliced instead of ripped if it’s with a blade, but putting that aside…), and it’s pretty graphic. It’s about as graphic as you could get away with in a dark fantasy magazine with a lot of naked women on its covers in the 1920s. And what’s more, the trees kill Polleau and the other son off-screen, giving McKay enough leeway to get off scott free. The trees don’t even take vengeance on him when he turns down their offer to join them (I assume by giving up his human body to become a tree spirit, I’m not sure), they just seem a little crestfallen about it. But yeah, aside from being shaken from killing a guy and making contact with a bunch of ghosts, McKay gets out of this in one piece. Didn’t expect that.

    A Step Farther Out

    Merritt’s known more for his novels (not that he’s known much at all these days), but I’m more of a short story fan myself. Why he didn’t contribute more to Weird Tales, I’m not sure. Maybe the pay rate wasn’t enough. At least with Amazing Stories in the late ’20s, Merritt’s lack of original appearances (although he did give the green light on a few reprints) can be explained by Hugo Gernsback being reluctant to pay anybody much of anything. By the time more rivals to Weird Tales, and indeed more genre alternatives to the general pulps, came about, Merritt stopped writing, and then he died about a decade later. It’s a bit of a shame, because it turns out he wasn’t half bad at writing short fiction. “The Woman of the Wood” is a decent bit of rural weird horror that’s aged better than most from the same period, namely due to Merritt’s style plus the lack of racism.

    See you next time.

  • Serial Review: A Time of Changes by Robert Silverberg (Part 3/3)

    August 22nd, 2025
    (Cover by Jack Gaughan. Galaxy, May-June 1971.)

    The Story So Far

    Life on Borthan is harsh, probably only marginally less so now compared to hundreds of years ago, when the human settlers came to this planet. Over a period of generations, the settlers constructed a religious creed, called the Covenant, which forbids “selfbaring” and general selfishness, to the point where even referring to oneself in the first-person singular is considered even worse than someone saying “fuck,” “shit,” or “cunt” in public today. This becomes a bit of a problem for Kinnall Darival, theoretically next in line to be septarch of Salla but in practice a nomad who has voyaged to Manneran in the name of settling down: ya know, finding a wife, getting a steady job, that sort of thing. He finds a wife in Loimel, a relative of Halum, Kinnall’s bondsister, who physically resembles Halum to an eerie extent but who otherwise has nothing in common with her. Their marriage is a cold one that soon turns into both parties regularly having affairs, which is not as bad a deal as it sounds; after all, marriage in Borthan is something more often done as a political maneuver than out of love. For some years, life in Manneran goes smoothly for Kinnall, but then of course something has to happen, or else this would be quite a short story.

    Through having a connection with the local bureaucracy, Kinnall meets Schweiz, an Earthman who’s come to Borthan on business, and indeed it’s not every day someone from Earth comes to this borderline inhospitable backwater. Kinnall and Schweiz quickly form a bond, which is solidified when the latter procures a “potion” hiterto unknown to Borthan’s people, although this potion turns out to be a mind-altering drug that exchanges the perspectives of those using it. Schweiz convinces Kinnall to take a leap of faith and totally give in to the selfbaring the drug grants. It’s a psychedelic experience, pretty “far out” as the hippies would’ve said at the time, and it flips a switch in Kinnall’s brain seemingly in an instant. Whereas there was some resentment towards the Covenant before (namely that, being bondsiblings, Kinnall is prohibited from having sex with Halum), now it has become a full-on rebellion in Kinnall’s heart. What’s more is that there are others in Manneran who share similar sentiments, such that Kinnall will play a role in this new movement.

    Enhancing Image

    I hope you weren’t expecting to become attached to Loimel (in fairness, you probably weren’t), because she does not appear in this final installment at all. All we get is a couple mentions. After everything goes to shit and Kinnall gets captured, Loimel has nothing to say to him, as if she had forgotten they were even married in the first place. As for Halum, she makes her final appearance when Kinnall shares the drug with her, although Kinnall had to be convinced to do this, seeing it as a bad idea—a hunch that’s proven to be correct. As if beholden to one of those self-fulfilling prophecies, Kinnall’s reluctance to share the drug with Halum (his concern mainly coming from the fact that he knows she’ll find out about his massive crush on her) only leads her to push for sharing it harder. The experience is so traumatic, however, that Halum opts to commit suicide in a rather odd fashion. It’s been clear up to this point that Halum’s death has haunted Kinnall the whole time he’s been writing this memoir of his, although I have to admit that even with such a dramatic event finally delivered, it didn’t hit me much at all. We don’t get to know Halum very well, and even when she and Kinnall have their mutual drug trip she’s revealed to be basically a virginal angel of a human being. So, of the only two women to feature prominently in the narrative, one walks out of the story by the time the third act comes around, while the other is unable to cope with the awesome new drug her bondbrother is now peddling. One is emotionally distant for no particular reason while the other turns out to be emotionally fragile. Somehow I don’t think this would’ve won points with feminists, although compared to some of Silverberg’s other novels from this period A Time of Changes‘s misogyny is mild.

    It would be easy to say this is a novel about how selfishness is a virtue, or about how greed, for lack of a better word, is good, but really it’s a novel about how emotionally connecting with people is, if not strictly necessary for human survival, something that would make living a lot more bearable. The need for human connection is a theme that recurs in Silverberg’s strongest novels from that period where he was supposedly at the height of his powers, see The Man in the Maze, Dying Inside, and “To See the Invisible Man,” a theme so persistent that he seemed to have an obsession with it. Why? I don’t know, I haven’t really looked into why Silverberg had this idea stuck in his head for years on end, despite reading essays, editorials, introductions to other people’s books, interviews, and so on. As with Yasujirō Ozu, who returned to the same basic elements in his later movies with somewhat varying degrees of success, Silverberg did similarly with his writing during the late ’60s and early ’70s, which might explain how he was able to write so many novels and short stories—a level of productivity only topped by his output in the mid-to-late ’50s, although nobody talks about that stretch of his career nowadays. He also tended towards the same character archetypes, because I would be hard-pressed to find anything that distinguishes Kinnall from most of Silverberg’s other protagonists, who likewise all share some qualities with the same person—that, it only stands to reason, being Silverberg himself. Once Kinnall tries and fails to convert Stirron to the drug cult and sits in prison, possibly awaiting execution (or maybe not, Kinnall is vague on what his punishment is to be), I feel like I’m saying farewell to yet another Silverberg surrogate.

    By the way, I would bet a kidney (not one of my kidneys, somebody else’s) that Silverberg had read Aldous Huxley’s “The Doors of Perception” and thought it would be neat to turn Huxley’s thesis into a novel. In fairness to Huxley, he wrote that famous essay in the ’50s, and Huxley, it must be said, is a more likable narrator than Kinnall. All the same, considering the SF readership in 1971 must’ve been at least 25% hippie, I think those folks would’ve liked A Time of Changes.

    A Step Farther Out

    This must be the fifth or sixth Silverberg novel from the late ’60s and early ’70s that I’ve read, and if I were to rank them it would probably land smack dab in the middle. It didn’t offend me like Up the Line did, and Silverberg put more effort (it seems to me) into A Time of Changes than Across a Billion Years and To Live Again. Silverberg wrote these novels at a feverish pace, probably with little in the way of revising. These novels share more or less all the same problems, although some are more severely afflicted than others. (It’d be a hard task to overstate how creepy and misogynistic Up the Line is.) Similarly, the misogyny that permeates A Time of Changes holds it back, but it’s also a novel that reads as being very of its time. Why SFWA members felt it deserved the Nebula more than The Lathe of Heaven, a novel that still mostly holds up to scrutiny (its function as baby’s introduction to Taoism reeks a bit of New Age hippie bullshit, but it’s quite bearable), I’m not sure. Silverberg had written better at this time, but the problem is that I’m not sure if any of his novels (barring possibly Dying Inside) from this period were deserving of any major awards.

    See you next time.

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