Without a name or need for one, he arrives scattered at the base of a tree and he rests like that, in pieces, for sixty-odd years. He is forty-nine sticky droplets of impulse and intelligence, tucked under dried oak leaves, clinging to a stone.
Monsters, like gods, are birthed by every age
in dark / some thing / moves some / thing moves / in dark
In this episode of Critical Friends, the Strange Horizons SFF criticism podcast, Hana Carolina and Alex Kingsley join Dan Hartland to think about reviewing debut books and writers. Is there an extra responsibility reviewers owe to new writers? And if so, what might it be?
