PERSEPHONE STATION: It’s Just Not That Deep

Published in January 2021, Stina Leicht’s Persephone Station is a feminist-leaning space opera destined for the big screen. It’s got all your standard-issue bells and whistles: Characters with questionable morals (and most of them the [main characters] female or nonbinary), corporate politics, murky science and good old-fashioned action-movie mayhem.

Persephone is a relatively small planet with a difficult ecosystem that keeps the city of Brynner compressed into one tight little area. Insane storms, murderous flora and fauna, the works. Persephone is also "owned” by the Serrao-Orlov corporation, which both is and isn’t indicative of where this book decides to go.

The company is under new leadership, and Vissia Corsini is—you already know—a horrible person who must be stopped before she goes too far. Well, too much farther past too far, because she hits “too far” in the first chapter of the book when she bombs an indigenous settlement because they won’t give her what she wants.

Serrao-Orlov is allowed to “own” the planet because it is listed as lacking native sentient lifeforms to claim it themselves. But for a species to own its own planet, it must register as a galactic resident and go from there. Persephone’s inhabitants didn’t want to reveal themselves for various reasons, so they struck a deal. But now it’s being violated, and further strained, and thus we have our context.

Okay. Next layer: Rosie is the owner of a bar where the crime bosses recruit and mercenaries-for-hire hang out, etc. There’s a more respectable business front for tourists, but even the book doesn’t care. Rosie hires Angel de la Reza and her crew for a protection job that looks like a suicide mission.

Persephone Station has a large cast of characters, to whom we are introduced in rapid, jarring succession. Leicht alternates character POVs across chapter breaks, with three primary perspectives on rotation. Rosie, the aforementioned bar owner and essentially mostly ethical crime boss. They are a key orchestrator throughout, a mover of money and holder of binding contracts. Angel, a former marine who’s died at least a few times, now leads a “band of beneficent criminals, wayward assassins, and washed-up mercenaries” on a ship named Kurosawa. Angel’s team includes Sukyi, who is sick and understood to be dying; Lou, a daredevil pilot; and Enid, a talented sniper. And Kurosawa, which is also the name of the AI (she also uses AGI, but I can’t find the random location where she spells out wtf the ‘g’ stands for, so happy hunting) powering the ship.

(“Revivification” is a realized technology in this universe, and often used in military kerfuffles, but there’s no significant discussion over how or if civvies get the ol’ necromancy experience or if they’re stuck with “sucks to suck.” Revivification also comes with health issues and can only be done so many times; Angel has to take meds for her resultant seizures and migraines, for example.)

And then there’s Kennedy Liu, who is more than she says she is—which is to say she is an AGI illegally living in a human-looking body and she needs to ensure nobody notices. Her ‘mother’ was recently murdered in her lab.

Here’s the long and the short of it: Persephone Station frustrated the hell out of me and was an unfortunately disappointing experience. The book itself feels very shallow and detached from its content, as if Leicht watched a movie in her head and just wrote it all down. At no point was there content in this novel that would be impossible (even difficult) to portray or convey in a video format, which left me feeling a little cheated at regular intervals. And, while on the topic, there were a number of “transitions” between scenes—and a few chapter breaks in particular—that felt a bit trite, a la sci-fi history. Others were jarringly abrupt, some of which were the most egregiously action-movie-esque, in my opinion, forcing a really unnecessary cliffhanger.

I don’t want to shame people out of acknowledging film as a key source of inspiration and even, to some degree, a narrative reference point. But the problem is that books and movies are not structured the same because they don’t function in the same way. A movie has a very limited time frame it can fill and must condense or conflate bits to accomplish the same goal, whereas a book doesn’t experience that constraint and can dive into the really cool moments and technologies and such. But, Persephone Station doesn’t really have anything that exceeds the confines of a movie, which leaves for a somewhat hollow experience.

That said: It would make a fantastic movie, and I’d watch the hell out of it. The narrative lacks depth and, while it’s clear that an effort was made to build complex characters, they all felt a little stiff and, in some cases, lean a bit too hard on some tired clichés. I was deeply frustrated by this book for a lot of reasons, not the least of which because the concepts and general themes are pretty on point and compelling, and the book just failed to deliver on them. I was so ready to love this book, but it just really let me down.

Honestly, this might all have been more bearable if the text itself had been better. It was inconsistent both in terms of punctuation and verbiage, and I had a lot of “Where was your editor?!” moments throughout. Hyphens where they shouldn’t be, two different forms of the same word—on the same page!—some awkward dialogue that just… isn’t reflective of how people actually talk. It’s hard to engage with the philosophical material presented in this book because its failings were too distracting.

The climax of the novel I also found frustrating. A little underwhelming and a lot cliché. But the end of the last chapter, pre-epilogue, did end pretty well. I didn’t enjoy the epilogue particularly, but I get why it’s there and like. Fine. But I remain disgruntled about the entire experience.

What wasn’t at all Leicht’s fault or responsibility are my complaints with the physical manifestation of the book. Rolling in at 489 pages (plus end pages, to 512), this book is padded with wide line spacing and massive margins. It did not need to be, nor should it have been, this long—again: not discussing the IP, just its vehicle. The cover art is incredible, but even the AI-in-a-body character doesn’t actually look like that, which is a ripoff. Gimme the edgy girl with circuitry in her face. I want it. I’m pretty sure she’s supposed to be Kennedy Liu

Anyway. Where I would normally dive into the themes and concepts, the position/argument/thesis hidden within the pages… there’s not really much to dive into. AGIs aren’t allowed to have bodies because they’re too powerful. Yes. Space structures are governmental bodies but planets are typically run by some corporation or another. Okay, sure, but ownership re: capitalism is a topic I’ve covered at length, and there’s nothing substantial to add here. Certainly not when that ownership is so easily contested or upended. Too much power drives humans out of their damned minds. Beating a dead horse. There’s not even any reason to dive into the feminist nature of the book because it’s so very straight forward and just simply built in. Book Riot was right that it’s wicked feminist, but I never had enough reason to fall in love with any of the characters. We just didn’t get enough about them, defended by them being mercenaries and therefore tight-lipped individuals. It’s not really good enough.

I give it three-ish stars. It was fine. I complained the whole time, but it kept me going with the smaller details, the little moments that suggested there was more to explore, more to see, and it was disappointing that Leicht never delivered on those moments. Would I recommend it to anyone? Sorry, but no. I would not. Would I go see a movie if someone decided to make it? Hell yes. Would I be anxious about casting decisions? Ohhhhh yes, so much. It would take the right director and a cast really committed to the fiction, but it could be cool.

Autonomous: What does "freedom" mean?

Autonomous, written by Annalee Newitz and published by Tor books in 2017, is a cyberpunk novel without all the high-saturation bells and whistles. This book gets to the heart of what cyberpunk is actually about, but wrapped in a (usually) more subtle package. This is a book that asks us what it means to be free when anything and anybody can be owned.

This is a future in which androids and robots and AI are ever present and fulfill as many roles in society as their human counterparts. But because androids are “property,” despite cognizance, the argument was ultimately made that, well, if we could own androids for “indentured service,” then why can’t they do the same thing with people? And it worked, because I guess humans are just destined to suck forever. (Why couldn’t I have just been born a jellyfish? Nobody asked me.)

There were a lot of things that I really liked about this book, and then there were some things that I still have major reservations about, even while I try to step back and think about what Newitz ultimately said, rather than what I think she should have said. Because the way that I’m approaching the one particular element in mind (I’ll get there, hold your horses) is definitely not the only way to approach it. So we’re going to work on that in a little bit.

In particular, I liked the prose. I thought that it read well; its details were compelling and its descriptions vibrant. There is a lot going on in every single setting we encounter in this book, a lot wrapped up in every social interaction between both bots and humans. I think its ideas were solid, and I think it did cyberpunk really, really well. It’s understated in a lot of ways and extravagant in a lot of others, the balance of which felt good at least most of the time. And while I will say the plot wraps up nicely, I don’t think the book’s ideas do. I actually found the conclusion to be… somewhat lacking, really. Anti-climactic, in a way. It felt rushed, perhaps.

Let’s talk setup and plot

Autonomous is a dual-narrative novel told from a rotation of perspectives. Judith “Jack” Chen is an anti-patent scientist turned drug pirate. To contextualize, pretty much every major disease has a cure at this point, as well as the bulk of the more minor ones. Medications and drugs are patented, which means that hospitals and pharmacists can “print” the meds, but for the cost of the patent. For each pill fabricated. Which means that unless you’re wicked rich, you will most likely have to sell yourself into slavery—oh, excuse me, indenture—in order to pay for them.

And once you’re indentured, good luck ever getting out of it again. Because your contract can be bought and sold at any time, and then the terms entirely changed. People with only a year or two left on a contract will easily find themselves traded off to somebody else and now facing another 7 year term. You see what’s building here? Yeah. So the only way to escape this is to be lucky enough to own a “franchise” by the time you come of age. This isn’t closely examined, more mentioned in passing, because the book isn’t about persons born free; it’s about beings fighting for freedom—even those persons who were never subjected to indenture find themselves in a bloody battle against capitalism and big pharma. And the vast majority of androids, despite being promised eventual autonomy, never see it, contracts passed along and changed as necessary for the new owner’s satisfaction.

There are points throughout this book that are designed to make you uncomfortable, and I’m here to tell you that they accomplish the task.

This book is set a little more than 20 years into our future, and every day that passes only makes this whole thing feel more and more plausible, but such is the nature of cyberpunk.

Okay. Jack Chen. Anti-patent scientist turned drug pirate. She replicates life saving medications for poor people without appropriate access. She also fabricates “designer drugs” to pay the bills, thereby enabling her to manage the whole Robin Hood thing. Enter the A plot:

Jack has reverse engineered a new designer drug called Zacuity, created by one of the biggest and most powerful pharma companies in the world, which turns out to be addictive. And so because her reverse-engineered replica is molecularly identical, Jack sets off a sudden crisis, as people take this “Here’s Your Addiction! Enjoy!” drug to enhance their work performance—but then can’t stop doing that thing. It doesn’t end well for any of them.

Presenting the B Plot: Eliasz is a… hmm… think about him like if you crossed a mega-corp's security guard with a fed’s permission to do anything they want, and a cop’s belligerence, throw in some blatant homophobia, and you’ve basically got Eliasz. His robotic partner, Paladin, joins him on this mission to chase down Jack and, preferably, kill her on the spot. But, of course, along the way, the pair find themselves experiencing a… unique “bond.” Some of you may have guessed from the scare-quotes that this is where my mixed feelings lie for this book.

I’m not really going to get into Jack’s particular plotline too much because it generally worked pretty well and she was doing the best she could. There are points throughout this book that are designed to make you uncomfortable, and I’m here to tell you that they accomplish the task. But the discomfort reached new heights between Eliasz and Paladin.

Programming, free will, autonomy

Androids created into servitude (the vast majority of them), are coded to want to please their acting “master.” Which is to say that they are programmed from initial build to prioritize the wants, expectations, needs, etc, of another being before their own—and that the robot/android (none of the words ever feel right in this context, btw, because of the inherent erasure of Personhood, which is at the heart of this whole thing) will do things that it knows will make its current owner/master pleased with it.

Starting out pretty dicey. But it gets worse, because of course it does.

Not only are androids programmed to want to please their master first in whatever context that happens to be, they are also locked out of sections of their memories, not to mention any number of other feature or data locks. Alongside that, because they are a literal possession, they have no semblance of privacy, as their entire memories can be downloaded and wiped at any time, and for any reason. There are supposed to be protections put in place for some of these things, but humans possess a unique knack for cruelty, so don’t count on much.

Noooooooowwwwwwww, with all that under our belts, we have some new problems. When we are introduced to Paladin, we receive masc pronouns but, obviously, no other gender markers of any form. Because Paladin is a robot and doesn’t have a gender. And this genderlessness and human habit to anthropomorphize bots comes up again and again and again throughout the book, but it never comes up anywhere productive or useful. But good ol’ “I’m not a fag” Eliasz determines he has feelings for this military-grade buff-ass robot, so therefore the brain in Paladin’s carapace must have been a woman’s.

Many androids, particularly those intended to interact with humans, are fitted with a human brain in their abdomen, which functions exclusively to process and contextualize human body language and facial expressions, which are anything but logical or consistent. The brain obviously belonged to a human at some point, but we don’t talk about how the brains go from skulls to android guts. At Eliasz’s weird, emotional behest, Paladin does the work to discover that his was once in a woman’s skull, which is all the proof Eliasz needs that having feelings for / being attracted to Paladin is totes above board. “I knew I wasn’t a fag.” (<—not quite a word-for-word but close enough.) And when Eliasz asks, Paladin agrees that she’d like to take femme pronouns instead now. It made him happier, after all.

Okay. So now we’re here, at a human/android romantic relationship. Sorta. And Eliasz wants Paladin to… experience… sexual pleasure. Which… you know, isn’t a thing for the ol’ robot. So as a workaround, Paladin downloads a virus off the internet to crash her entire system. She concludes that this peculiar sensation is enjoyable, and she and Eliasz code it as an orgasm. Which is…

I told you at the start, I have problems here, people.

Look, as I said at the top: The book is well written. The imagery is fantastic and it is the exact amount of anti-capitalist that cyberpunk should be (looking at you, failure of a decade-awaited video game). It is rooted in the communal drive for compassion and aid and collaboration, for unilateral betterment of society instead of whatever makes money fastest. It is pitted against corporate greed and academic weakness for political sway. Even Eliasz, government-funded terrorist that he is (it takes very little effort to come to that descriptor, you’ll find), comes to his job from a place of compassion and righteousness. He moved from city police to international agent without limits to save trafficked children that he wasn’t able to help before. And like, cool, good for you, but I don’t see how murdering your way across the globe to catch one person is closing that gap for you.

So I guess it’s just… if we’re engaging with the notion that androids are also people deserving of freedom and right to life, which we’re doing, then Paladin’s relationship with Eliasz is questionable at best. And while I’m saying this, I have a voice calmly asking me to slow down. Because when Paladin ultimately achieves autonomy and has the space to really examine these things, she determines that their presence even after the autonomy key implies they are hers, not programming. And when her autonomy is made permanent, she chooses to stay with Eliasz and they’re happy together. And I want to be happy for them, but I just… can’t quite get myself there. Which leaves me in the sticky position of Unsure whether asshole because I feel A instead of B, or if asshole because feeling good about B is ignoring whatever else.

But if I’ve gotta pick a stance, I’m settling on “Ew.” Because I really think it’s problematic! And kinda gross!

Let’s take a step back now

There is a huge cast of characters in Autonomous, the majority of whom all play key roles in the layout and propulsion of the plot. And I don’t want to act like none of them are more important or interesting than the above issues with autonomy in relationships, because I would actually argue the opposite. But you know how when you’re reading a book but one thing is really distracting you so when you’re done it’s really all you’ve held onto? That’s kind of where I’m at. Even after insisting that I did enjoy the bulk of this book, I’m just left a bit dissatisfied. I’ll give it at least 3.5 stars, if not 4, because I’m far more invested in a book that makes me really think about the ideas it’s positing than I am in a book that tells me exactly what to think about a situation. Even if I don’t agree with the conclusion of the idea put forth, I just want to see a book engage with something important. And Autonomous absolutely does that.

I haven’t really gotten into the queerness of this book, which is probably not the best in a queer-focused blog, but it’s everywhere throughout this novel. Truthfully, Eliasz is the only character who is ever posited with an actual opinion on sexuality; otherwise, everyone seems to be rather fluid. Jack canonically doesn’t care about gender in her sexual partners, and neither does anyone around her, really. It’s the genderless android-plus-human relationship that we really have to work with in Autonomous, and I am absolutely 100% not taking this into a mirror or whatever for being in a relationship with an Ace person. Because comparing asexual/agender persons to robots is pretty tasteless? And Newitz is not making that parallel on page at any point, just to make that clear. But when it’s put in front of you as above, it’s easy to make that mental leap. There is so much about this book that is queer that there really isn’t anything in the book that isn’t somehow or another. Especially surrounding the one, singular homophobic character.

Don’t read Autonomous for answers; read it for the questions. Read it for the what-ifs and the what-thens. Read it for the prescient critique of advanced capitalism. Read it to think about what personhood and agency and autonomy and ownership and property mean in a global society. Read it to think about how you treat other people and how you approach labor. But do read it.

The Punch Escrow: What makes a person?

The Punch Escrow by Tal M Klein

The Punch Escrow is a futuristic sci-fi novel by Tal M. Klein, published in 2017. According to a 2017 Variety article, the movie options were purchased very early on, with Muppets director James Bobin listed at the helm -- but I can’t find any more recent news or updates on it.

I read the book for my office book club, and although there were certainly things I liked and found interesting about the book, my opinion came to an overall negative, and I’d probably leave the book about 2.5/5 stars, despite the book’s generally warm reception upon release.

The novel is set in 2147 and is, more or less, about teleportation and what effectually constitutes personhood, although Klein never actually gets around to answering those questions in any meaningful—or satisfying—way.

Joel Byram, the narrating protagonist, has an inconsequential job harassing AI bots. Momentarily charming, but—and maybe it’s just because I work in tech in 2020—not particularly believable given the surrounding context. 

Joel’s wife, Sylvia, is far more interesting character, but we get relatively little of her. Sylvia is a high-level employee at International Transport, and IT runs the world, you see. 

Teleportation is possible in 2147; a person steps into a vestibule in location A, and is then teleported to the vestibule of location B. The safety features ensure that, in the event of a problem, the person doesn’t actually go anywhere. The idea is that the data doesn’t transfer until receipt is confirmed or whatever. There are a lot of immediate big questions about this, in text and out, but the effort to address them feels half-assed at best.

The novel that follows includes terrorism and the accidental duplication of Joel Byram. Because someone detonated a bomb in the transport center while he was teleporting, and Sylvia assumed he was dead and duplicated him because guilt/grief. And that was the project she’d been working on: Honeycomb, or a genetic copy of everyone who’d ever teleported, because drive toward immortality and power.

Complete with mad genius scientist. 

The first few chapters were a slog. The prose was clunky and it was a disorienting info dump. Before I’m criticized for not understanding sci-fi conventions: I’ve read a lot of sci-fi. I get it. There’s a lot to establish. Klein uses footnotes—which  are very much a device I adore in fiction, but they were so thick as to make it unwieldy and disorienting—for a lot of those explanations, but the problem was just how dense they were. My issue with it is that the footnotes contained a lot of really great fiction/creative context for things, it was all the stuff that illustrates how 2147 developed. Burying them all in the front third of the book is really a disservice to the creative footnote.

Anyway. After the first few chapters, the book felt like it opened up a bit and I started to enjoy myself. It was unfortunately short lived. Look, I’m down for a sarcastic narrator (see: the protagonist of literally every urban fantasy novel), but Byram isn’t just sarcastic, he’s an asshole. (And when he has to deal with himself—literally—for the final third of the novel, he even realizes how much he sucks. So. I’m not being that mean.) 

But the crux of this novel’s problem is that it completely loses the thread about two-thirds of the way through the book. It reads very much like someone just writing a screenplay narrative concept, where the novel is essentially a proof-of-concept for a film option. And Klein only got halfway—which is to say, the movie deal. None of the Big Questions™ that come up are addressed. Teleportation isn’t harmless. Each teleportation is a deletion and reprint of the physical person, every time. So teleportation is, arguably, murder/suicide. The whole climax of the novel is a slushfest of squishy movement and politicking, ill-explained subterfuge and poorly managed relationship dynamics.

The ending was the most anticlimactic scramble of a scene I’ve read in awhile. It was the veritable definition of slapdash, and it was kind of painful to read. Character actions don’t track, based on their arcs. Motivations don’t track. The scientist gone insane rant is… I mean, tacky at best? It just felt so hollow and baseless and unfulfilling I didn’t even care about the resolution. Incoherent in a bad way. The conclusion of the outer framing story didn’t track, either, presented at the beginning as a recording of this crazy thing the reader needs to make sense of and deal with, even though… there are precisely zero consequences for anyone. Ultimately, it was very clear that Klein didn’t go into this already knowing how it ended.

The biggest philosophical question is what defines personhood. What defines a “soul”? The novel posits that teleportation results in a couple grams of “packet loss”—this is the source of religious groups’ certainty that teleportation is murder, that that loss must be the soul—but that also never comes back up, and would have been way more interesting than the mad scientist angle. I know I haven’t explained that properly, but the plot line wasn’t earned, nor was it executed with any skill whatsoever, so don’t worry about it. Also, it means that if you decide to read it, I’ve left you some surprises.

It’s also a personal pet peeve of mine when futurist sci-fi writers are exclusively obsessed with the 1980s. Being obsessed with 1980s music in 2147 is like your neighbor Chad being wicked obsessed with 1760s madrigals specifically. But bigger than that, it’s the refusal to make up or imagine culture beyond the early 2000s, i.e. culture that hasn’t happened yet. I don’t want to hear about Moron Musk being some tech hero in 2147. Make it up. Also, the conceit that Amazon Glacier will still exist in 2147 😂😂😂

Anyway. 

I really wanted to like this book. The premise is cool, but it just isn’t well executed at any point. The footnotes are aggressive, then well paced, and abruptly nonexistent. Sure, there are arguments to be made in favor of that timing, but we don’t have all day, and I can’t say everything. 

I’m also just not down with the idea that after all of this chaos and violence and all of everything, there are no consequences. None. No consequences! Haha! Can you believe it!? A sci-fi novel that terminates without consequences. 

Wild. 

I won’t say I “hate read” it, but it was very obvious when the plot fell apart, and I had to force myself to finish it. It just ceased to be a good time. 

Final verdict: strong, interesting premise, failed execution. 

Symptoms of Being Human: Living Between Genders

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Written by Jeff Garvin and published in February 2016, Symptoms of Being Human was Reading Queer book of the month for January 2019.

This book is an ALA Best Fiction for Young Adults book and was a finalist in both the GoodReads Choice Awards and the Lambda Literary Award.

Symptoms is the story of a nonbinary/intersex teenager by the name of Riley Cavanaugh, whose therapist has advised them to write a blog to process their anxieties about life and their gender—or lack thereof.

Riley's dad, however, is a high profile congressman running for reelection, and on a "family values" platform*, which makes coming out to their parents just that much more harrowing.

Has anyone noticed that when politicians run on a "family values" platform, it only ever means one very specific thing, and a thing that really doesn't even apply to the average family anymore? Straight white parents, straight white college-bound kids. Donezo. Forget any of the variations of gender or sex, or parentage or structure. If it weren't for me, my family would fit. But I'm the wrench in that machine. Holla.

Prior to the novel's opening, Riley had a complete breakdown at a public event by way of panic attack, and had to be hospitalized afterward. Now, they have enrolled at a public school and just want to blend in and disappear.

That plan, obviously, goes very askew, very fast. Riley's blog is about being genderqueer and published under the pseudonym Alix. And suddenly the support and comments come rolling in, and then an organization called Queer Alliance features it on their webpage and it gets a little out of control.

Simultaneously, someone at school has found the blog and keeps threatening to out them. The entire novel is anxiety, dysphoria and trauma, but it does end on a high note.

There is no point in the book where Riley's sex is exposed (to the reader), and no pronouns are ever assigned to them. I kept waiting for it to happen, not in the way that I wanted or needed to know, but in the sense that life and literature have primed me to expect it. The nonbinary identification is almost always, in some manner, broken by something simple. I applaud Garvin for making that move.

All of that said, Garvin's author's note at the end explains that the novel idea spun out of an exchange he had with friends in a car regarding a trans girl who was fighting her school over using the girl's bathroom. Because no one came to the girl's defense, he decided to write a book about a nonbinary character.

I freely admit that I don't know Garvin's gender or sexuality. It's not listed in any of his bios and, in the small amount of perusing I did on his Twitter, never mentioned or even hinted at. It’s not my or anyone else’s business, anyway. What matters is that he did a lot of research and took a lot of care to respect things here, which he freely professed, and the work definitely shows.

And I respect that the need to write a novel that treats nonbinary teenagers well after that kind of a discussion experience. But I also admit that the explanation left a pretty bad taste in my mouth when he didn't speak up for that trans girl, either. He waited for someone else to say something, and when nobody did, he just let his friend's shitty "he's a perv who wants a peek" comment stand out in the ether uncontested. Nobody’s perfect and we don’t always know what to say, and I’m not here to make a character review, just the book, but when the story is presented such within the physical object, it’s hard not to let it start to color things.

That said, the text doesn't mistreat trans or NB characters or identities. It does a solid job at holding them all in high regard while demonstrating the Community At Large's response to identities it doesn't understand, and that's with violence.

Riley's identity is met with violence, but it is also met with understanding and compassion from other places. The apex of the story is a physical assault, and while that is definitely triggering for those of us who've had to go through it already, I will commend Garvin for how he handled it, which was from a distance and without unnecessary detail. We are not asked to live through it with Riley, and I found that to be appropriately gracious. Gratuitous assault/rape for the sake of "gritty realism" is canceled.

All told, I'd give the book about 3.5 stars. It was a fast read with some decent flow, but I had some problems with some tonal elements throughout. There were a number of things that felt really flat and a handful of things that felt pretty forced at the end of the day. Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable, light read, and I definitely recommend it to people who need an introduction into what it means to live between genders.

Vision in Silver: Anne Bishop (The Others, book 3)

Author’s note: Written in 2015

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Vision in Silver is, as the title mentions, the third book in Anne Bishop's series The Others.

When we began this journey, we joined Meg and her new arrival into the Lakeside Courtyard, where the terra indigene hire her as their new Human Liaison for their post office. Suddenly, everything begins to change, including the way that the Others view humans and the way that they all interact. But Meg's Controllers from the compound where she'd been held, designated by a number, were searching for her, and getting altogether too close for comfort.

Thanks to the Courtyard's unprecedented attachment to Meg, the threat is neutralized and the world begins to change. The Humans First and Last movement, often shortened to HFL, has come over from Cel-Romano and begun to take hold of Thaisia, and they are beginning to create havoc. Drugs called Gone Over Wolf and Feel Good are being manufactured from the blood of the Cassandra Sangue, girls like Meg who see prophesy when they cut their precious skin. These drugs are being used as weapons not only against the terra indigene—but also against each other.

Vision in Silver comes in with the wild expansion of the HFL across Thaisia, with nebulous threats of upcoming food shortages that make no sense under the conditions. There is a group of other Cassandra Sangue the terra indigene are trying to help, but most of them self-destruct, except for a few. One draws instead of making cuts because the Controllers aren't there to bind her fingers—and her drawings are eerily expressive—and she eventually calls herself Hope. Lieutenant Montgomery's daughter suddenly arrives on a train by herself with a stuffed bear in tow, but no mother—and now there are people coming in search of the secrets she brought along. HFL attacks the terra indigene at the marketplace where the Human pack took the Crows for a field trip—and the Elders (those terra indigene much older than any others, those who inhabit the wild country and are unseen and unknown to the humans in Thaisia) have declared a breach of trust: the Lakeside Courtyard has a brief amount of time to determine what of humanity may stay, but the rest will be eliminated.

Throughout Vision in Silver, the same kinds of philosophical questions posed in Murder of Crows appear: Are you more sympathetic toward the humans or the terra indigene? What does it mean to support one over the other? But more than that, and this is the key point seen in this novel particularly: Who do we trust when we sabotage our own people? Where do you turn when the people who are supposed to be on your side have chosen some other side that is both against the supposed danger-force (terra indigene, in this case) but also against any human who isn't against the Earth natives? To the forces that distrust you and your kind, consider you "clever meat", disposable, threatening? What if that's your only option?

What if, at the end of the day, the most dangerous force in your life is actually your neighbor, and not nature?

Simon Wolfgard is working very hard to preserve some of humanity because Meg's presence in the Courtyard has changed everything: it allowed interaction with the Lakeside human police force, it precipitated the creation of a human pack inside the Courtyard where before there had been none. By the end of the novel, the question on humanity has turned into something a little different. How much 'human' will the terra indigene be able to absorb while still maintaining their core selves? And, furthermore, if they allow themselves to absorb more of humanity, will they change the kind of terra indigene that they are now?

Vision in Silver moved very slowly until about 75% of the way through, and then all of a sudden everything happened all at once. Up until I reached that point, I was a little disappointed in it, even though I could tell it was leading up to something particularly virulent (and I was right); I just wanted more. I'm moved to say that I was less impressed by this book than by the previous two, but I enjoyed it anyway. I'm very excited to see where book 4 takes us, and I eagerly await the culmination of Simon's and Meg's tiptoeing around letting each other know they care more than just casually. That isn't a spoiler; it's been obviously coming since they met. It's somewhat subtle and there are much bigger things going on in the world than their relationship, but it is kind of a really infuriating will-they-won't-they dance that I've found I really don't have time for anymore. For both Meg and Simon, life is complicated and difficult and there isn't enough time.

I really want to know what the Elders are going to do now, and I really can't wait for this son of a bitch Nicholas Scratch to get his comeuppance. Seriously, though.

So that's what I've got. I gave it a solid 4 stars on Goodreads just because of the disappointment mentioned above, but I'd have given it 4.5 if it were an option. Because it probably wasn't worth a full star. C'est la vie.

Changeless: Gail Carriger (The Parasol Protectorate, Book 2)

Author’s note: Written in 2015

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Alexia Tarabotti is back! Now married to Conall Maccon, Alpha of the Woolsey pack, and promoted to Muh Jah on the Shadow Council for the Queen of England, life is busier than ever. All of the military regiments overseas have returned to England—and there's at least one setting up camp on her front lawn—and there's a rather peculiar force turning all members of the supernatural set human, at least in a particular area. When that space begins to move northward toward Scotland, following her husband, Alexia decides to follow him via dirigible. Forced into traveling with escorts, Alexia is joined by her French maid Angelique, her husband's claviger Tunstell (who is entirely in love with her friend Ivy Hisselpenny), her antagonistic half-sister Felicity—who is particularly angsty as the youngest sister is in the throes of planning her marriage, and—not to be outdone—her close friend Ivy Hisselpenny, who is newly engaged to one Captain Featherstonehaugh (but kind of irrevocably in love with Tunstell).

Before she leaves, however, she meets one particularly interesting French woman by the name of Madame Lefoux, who daylights as a hatmaker, but is a brilliant inventor behind closed doors, and was commissioned by Conall to make her one helluva parasol... that does everything but function as a parasol.

What's most interesting about Madame Lefoux is that she dresses in men's clothing, tailored to fit and accentuate her female body. She wears pants and waistcoats and cravats and the whole bit. It's glorious, if a bit scandalous. There are also some indications that she may be bisexual, as there is an interesting sexual/romantic tension between her and Alexia, and this all makes a very interesting commentary on sexuality and power in [modified] Victorian society. Whether that says anything about Alexia is kind of unspecified, although her "discomfort" might lend some clue.

On the dirigible, it becomes apparent that somebody is trying rather hard to rid England of Alexia, first by poisoning her food (which unfortunately affects Tunstell instead) and then by pushing her off the edge of the deck and apparently wrestling with Madame Lefoux. Alexia saves herself on the side of the beast, however, and makes it back to safety no worse for wear.

Once in Scotland, the group meets up with her husband and travels to Kingair Castle, where they are met with a surly, unattractive woman who is introduced as Conall's great-great-granddaughter. Alexia doesn't take too kindly to the sudden realization that her husband had been married once before and he never told her. Frankly, I can't blame her.

While in Kingair, at least as many issues arise as are solved. The source of the humanizing agent turns out to be a mummy brought back from Egypt. The individual ransacking Alexia's room and trying to kill her is her French maid, who had at some point in her past—surprise!—been romantically involved with Madame Lefoux.

But the real kicker to this book is the ending. And I'm telling you, I got so mad I fumed. I almost threw my book.

Alexia is pregnant. Surprise of the ages, since, theoretically, supernaturals are incapable of producing offspring. But despite the fact that Alexia couldn't possibly have slept with anyone else and certainly wouldn't lie about it, her bloody husband flips out and starts swearing at her in front of everybody until she and Madame Lefoux leave for London.

Now. Believe me. I understand that it looks bad. And Conall is emotional (at best). But this was simply uncalled for. He married a preternatural, which had never been done before, so I don't know why he couldn't believe that the union would be capable of producing something no one ever had before: a baby.

Murder of Crows: Anne Bishop (The Others, Book 2)

Author’s note: Written in late 2014

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Murder of Crows is the sequel to Written in Red—reviewed here. Published in March of this year, this book is only available digitally or in hardcover—for a whopping $26.95, I should mention (which I definitely don't have right now). I downloaded a digital copy to tide me over until a paperback copy is available.

The start of this novel is not immediate after the end of the previous, although the temporal distance between them is essentially negligible. Things in the human spaces are tense, and "gone over wolf"—the drug unveiled in Written in Red—is making its way around Thaisia.

Humans are baiting the Crows by putting "shinies" (i.e. anything that might attract a crow's attention) into trash cans on collection day and then poisoning food with GOW: attempted mass murder proceeds. Why Crows? Because they see everything and communicate with their crow counterparts—to put it simply: They know too much.

Although I am thoroughly enjoying Murder of Crows, I do have to admit that it doesn't start out—by which I mean the first 20-some chapters—at quite the same level of intensity. The main drama takes place outside of Lakeside—and in a different region, though growing ever-closer—and the body of what's taking place in Lakeside Courtyard is relationship drama between Meg and Simon. And we all saw that coming. The shoulders over which we're peeking are frequently new to us, the names being dropped are not familiar ones—and while this can feel random to the unseasoned, perhaps unprepared Bishop reader, it provides one with a set of puzzle pieces illuminating different areas on a multi-faceted situation--because this thing is bigger than a puzzle, and more complicated than a sphere; it has edges that can't be seen around and thus require new shoulders to illuminate those planes. I hope you're following.

All the cassandra sangue are prophesying the same thing, regardless of the questions asked, and even the euphoria can't mask the resulting terror/horror. Intuits--a breed of humans with terra indigene-like instincts—are sensing storms that have nothing to do with the weather. "Humans First and Last" is unfortunately gaining traction. Humans in Cel-Romano are building "flying machines." The terra indigene have evicted an entire hamlet for their crimes against the Crows. In essence: Shit's about to go down.

As the novel progresses, it becomes clear that Bishop is placing the reader in a very precarious moral, or ethical, debate: whose side are you on? Are you more sympathetic of the humans and their effort to gain more control over the world in which they're trying to live? Or are you more sympathetic to the Others, whose concern for the world outweighs their interest in the production of goods/services and the use for humans? While reading these novels, I am, of course, provided with the perspectives from both sides, and so I can sympathize with both humans and terra indigene. But am I supposed to sympathize with humans more because I am one, although am obviously living without the existence of a being higher up on my food chain? And if I am, what does it say if/that I'm not on the side of the humans? What does it say about me that I can ethically/morally/psychologically rationalize the motions of the terra indigene and their feelings? I don't entirely know at this point—although I will say that as an environmentalist who has hit "fuck humanity, bro" so hard, I'm really just on the side of the terra indigene—but it's an interesting question, and it's one that won't really leave me alone. I think that's kind of the point.

This isn't the only issue readers face: in dealing with the cassandra sangue, Namid's wondrous and terrible creation, was it ethical to allow for benevolent ownership? Was it ethical for these girls to be 'owned' and essentially have their lives run as if they were prison inmates? Considering the self-destruction they caused if left to their own devices, was it ethical to let them exist on their own, without guardianship? Could we rationalize putting these girls into concentration camps to prevent them from potentially killing themselves?

While the issue is hardly literally relevant to society, it may be metaphorically ethical when thinking about other things or situations. In some respects, it somewhat mirrors the complicated issue that the United States had with the mental institution framework back in the 70s, with note to the abuse within the system. With a little thought—and perhaps some extrapolation—I'm sure the ethical question can be overlaid like a projection transparency* upon certain situations.

Murder of Crows was significantly shorter than Written in Red, coming in at 35 chapters and 354 pages--please don't ask me to drop the chapter and page count of the first novel, but it at least felt like at least half again that long, if not twice. Consequently, I had it read in a very, very short amount of time—I bought it yesterday afternoon and finished it about an hour ago—and I have to admit that I'm kind of disappointed in its length. The ending is good, is concise, but definitely leading into another.

*Did I just date myself by referencing that technology? I'm not even that old! The technology that we had in my school growing up was pretty old because we were a small school with few students (I graduated with a mere 21 other kids) and so we didn't get all that much funding. Granted; I started school before 2000, so it's not like other places had SmartBoards and we didn't. But still.

Written in Red: Anne Bishop (The Others, Book 1)

Author’s note: Written in late 2014

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Having thoroughly enjoyed Ms. Bishop's Black Jewels series, I admit that I had very, very high expectations for this novel. However, where Black Jewels was often crass and indelicate—particularly in terms of sex/uality—The Others has none of that, although as of yet the sex has been glossed over when it's appeared. I suspect that the glossing is more because it's irrelevant than because she's not intending to highlight it ever; it wouldn't be the author's style. Written in Red so exceeded my expectations that I have shirked my duties the past two days just to read it. Now that I've finished it, I'm slightly perturbed that I didn't buy the second book at the same time.

Written in Red is the first book in what looks to be perhaps the most interesting fantasy series I have ever read—even more interesting than Bishop's Black Jewels series, a set of novels I devoured several years ago as a middle schooler, and have revisited tirelessly throughout the last 10 years since. First published last year, but released in paperback in March of this year, the obvious question that follows that claim is: What makes this book different?

As seen in three series prior to this from Bishop (by me, specifically), the author is far from averse to creating her own universes. Black Jewels, Ephemera and Tir Alainn are all series set in unique landscapes, designed to facilitate the types of events that play out within them. Unlike the three series listed above, The Others is a series that takes place in a world quite similar to our own, but with some very key differences.

Namely, humans are definitely not at the top of the food chain. Taking their place in Namid, the name for the world in which they live, are the terra indigene, or, the 'Earth Natives'. Preceding the story is a brief history of the world, which explains that when humans tried to spread out onto new continents, the Others ate them. All of them. The third human to lead his people into the Others's territory was smarter than his predecessors and brought trade items, which paved the way for human–terra indigene interaction over the course of the next several generations until hamlets became towns became cities, but were still under the thumb of creatures far from averse to eating them.

The novel follows a young woman (age 24) by the name of Meg Corbyn, who has escaped from somewhere and is seeking someplace to live freely. She finds herself in a Courtyard (areas fully controlled by Others in which human law does not apply) and applies for a position called "Liaison"—not even knowing what it meant. Simon Wolfgard (a Wolf, but for the first time in my fantasy career, never a werewolf) hires her instead of turning her away, even though her hair stinks (she dyed parts of it orange in an attempt to disguise herself) and it is apparent that she's not quite telling him the whole truth. It turns out that the Liaison's job is actually a mail collector/sorter/distributor, and must be human because of a slew of impertinent-here reasons.

As Meg acquaints herself with the position, she sets numerous terra indigene on edge, irritates many, confuses many others, and yet somehow befriends every single one of them. Meg's life before running away was a caged one, in which she was considered property and designated CS759—cassandra-sangue 759: Meg was a blood prophet, whose skin was deliberately sliced open in order to obtain prophecies from her... for a price. A steep price, as it were, which is why her Controller is rather insistent upon her return.

The main plots in this novel include the plot for requisition of Meg Corbyn, an aspiring actress's attempt to gain forbidden information and ultimately steal a Wolf pup, and the sudden appearance of a terrifying new drug that cannot be explained by humans or terra indigene until the very end, when Simon Wolfgard figures it out—this is a note that becomes enormously important to the play-out of the sequel.

Through a dramatic series of frustrating events, told through a cycle of perspectives not limited to Meg and Simon, we get to know a relatively large cast of characters through not only their own consciousnesses, but also through the minds of those around them. While the novel is packed with drama and high tension, there is also a massive amount of humor—two things Bishop is very, very good at pairing and balancing. Because Meg manages to befriend nearly everybody—including those the Sanguinati (based on Vampires, but definitely more dangerous than that) and Wolves privately fear: the elementals (for lack of a better word)—her health and well-being are highly important to a number of persons, and when those two things are threatened, the human populations (especially her enemies) are essentially attacked via weather until the threat is, how shall I say, neutralized.

Written in Red begins to touch upon what will become the core themes of the book series, which tend to revolve around a very Us versus Them dichotomy, where 'Us' consist of the Others, and 'Them' consists of the human populations trying to expand their territories and economic power—at least until the narration-perspective changes. What happens, as with any sociopolitical/socioeconomic dispute, is that you find people caught in the balance who understand the need for groups to work together instead of against each other, and those people become "sympathizers" who are subsequently lumped in with "Us" by "Them". Is this beginning to sound familiar? If you're even remotely globally conscious, it should.

But tagging onto this theme is the notion of sympathy and loyalty. The Others are old, and have had control of their world, of protecting Namid for centuries. The humans want a mile if given an inch and are very bitter about being restricted. They need more to accomplish more: the constant struggle of humanity, no? Do you sympathize with the "monsters" who go so far as to eat wayward humans? Do you sympathize with humans because you are one? Do you sympathize with Others because they're doing what they believe is right? Do you sympathize with humans for wanting to be more? It's a really tough call, and Bishop's use of constant narration switching between persons and sides makes it a very difficult question to answer. Frankly, I think moral questions rarely have a clear answer, and if they do you're probably not thinking broadly enough (with  exceptions).

At no point in this book (or series, for that matter) does Bishop ever begin to explicitly philosophize or wax poetic about this issue either externally or through the mind of the current narrator—at least not obtrusively. The struggles are there, and apparent, if you are open to them, but they are not force fed to you through exposition. For this, I was enormously grateful as a reader. This is a very overt example of the effectiveness of scene over exposition (although I am definitely not opposed to expository writing, even in novels), and absolutely deserves the attention of any die-hard fantasy reader.

Even if, or especially if, you have read Bishop's other material and not found it particularly to your writing, The Others is a breath of fresh air for anyone who likes fantasy with integrity.

Bishop's novel has received five brilliantly shiny gold stars from this lit critic and novel enthusiast. As an enthusiast, my opinion may be a bit biased—especially considering how fond I am of the author—but nobody's complained about my interpretation yet, so I guess I can't be that opaquely slanted. Or maybe I am, and that's not a bad thing yet.

Soulless: Gail Carriger (The Parasol Protectorate, Book 1)

Author’s note: Written in 2014, this writing style is no longer indicative of my modus operandi, but I stand by the gist of my points herein.

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CONTAINS SPOILERS. BE ON YOUR GUARD.

Soulless is the first novel in a series of 5 by Gail Carriger, a writer who is both hilarious and brilliant, and unquestionably has my loyalty after just this one novel.

I read it in the span of about a day and a half, just purely because I was so into it. And I was putting off my homework. As per usual. So sue me. (Don't, please, I beg you.)

Although the common mythology is that vampires and werewolves lack souls because they're "undead" if you will, Carriger has flipped this concept around, instead claiming that they have an excess of soul, which is what allows them to be supernatural in the first place. Alexia Tarabotti, our heroine, is what they refer to as a preternatural, or an otherwise normal human being who has been born without a soul. What this means is that she counteracts all supernatural-ness; coming into contact with a supe causes an immediate reversion to humanity for the werewolf/vampire/ghost in question, which is particularly interesting and, at times, sort of dangerous. This soullessness is, in fact, hereditary, and she got the trait from her Italian father, a heritage she and her family are most embarrassed about because they are, after all, British in the nineteenth century. (From my studies, I've gathered that this disdain of foreigners was a pretty solid thing for these people; whether or not it still holds is up in the air.)

Because supernaturals are "public," if you will, there had to be some manipulation of history in order to account for it all. It's actually quite genius, the way that things are perfectly accounted for and addressed. I wasn't even expecting such interesting developments. Also, there is an overseeing organization called BUR--an acronym I've unfortunately forgotten at the moment, and my novel is across the room, and I'm naked and in bed, so I'm not getting it to tell you. Suck it--headed by one Lord Maccon, the 20-years new Alpha of the Woolsey pack.

Alexia is particularly bold and educated in the sciences, etc. Her father is dead and has been for quite awhile, and her mother remarried a proper Brit and had two more daughters--and I'll be the first to tell you that Alexia's entire immediate family is a group of bloody twits.

Anyway. The plot of this novel is that roves (independent vampires not connected to a Hive--as opposed to a coven) are going missing, and new, uneducated vampires are randomly showing up. Not only that, but Alexia's being targeted and followed and such. Drama and hilarity ensue, and untoward romance sparks between Alexia--considered a spinster at age 26--and Lord Maccon, which is also bloody hilarious, I should mention.

The remainder of the plot and such is certainly worth discussion, but I'm not going to thrill you with it because it simply won't do to elaborate on the entire plot, now, will it? What would be the point in ruining it? Regardless, it's definitely worth a read.

The Midnight Mayor: Kate Griffin (Matthew Swift Chronicles, Book 2)

Author’s note: Written prior to 2014, this writing style is no longer indicative of my modus operandi, but I stand by the gist of my points herein.

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The Midnight Mayor by Kate Griffin

And so it continues.

Surprise! Swift survived the first novel. It got a bit hairy back there what with all the fighting and the murderous intentions. Secret societies, organizations pitted against magic (for "religious reasons"), psychotic colleagues, etc.

This novel opens just as abruptly as the last one did.

Matthew answers a public phone (because he will always answer the phone when it rings; it's part of who he is) and is blasted back down the street. And now he's being attacked by spectres, which are particularly rare for London. All I'll tell you is that the tools for their demise include beer and a cigarette. Happy imaginings. =]

Let me give you a visual of a spectre:

You've ever been strolling around a city and you see that kid shuffling along in a hoodie with the hood up and headphones going in, bobbing along to a beat that only they can hear? Now imagine said kid without a face. Just a gaseous space holding clothes in the proper shape. Now you've got a spectre--but you can hear their beats, and not all spectres bob to the same rhythm.

It's been said that, should the Ravens ever leave the Tower of London, should the Stone ever break, should the Wall be defaced, the city of London shall be damned. The Midnight Mayor's job is to protect the city--provided the Midnight Mayor actually exists, since Swift seems terribly skeptical--but if the city requires a protector, clearly there are things it requires protection from. Correct?

I am sure you have already deduced a few things with the help of the above paragraph coupled with the title. Namely, that the Midnight Mayor has died, that the position has been transferred to Matthew Swift, and that the city is in pretty deep shit.

Suddenly, the phrase "GIVE ME BACK MY HAT" is graffitti'ed across the city, written on the London Wall, on the wall where the Ravens were killed, on the window of the business housing the broken Stone--everywhere. Significant? You bet your ass.

Griffin does such a marvelous job creating suspense and then systematically untying knots which tie more knots until finally the whole thing comes undone at the end. You can't help but be drawn in, be captivated by her vivid imagery and intense, peculiar descriptions of things. She uses such unexpected language that catches you off guard but gives you a perfectly exact picture of what it is you're looking at and it's amazing. She has swiftly (hahahaha) become one of my very favorite and most inspiring authors--and it only took two novels. (One, actually, but we'll say two.)

Happy reading!

A Madness of Angels: Kate Griffin (Matthew Swift Chronicles, Book 1)

Author’s note: Written prior to 2014, this writing style is no longer indicative of my modus operandi, but I stand by the gist of my points herein.

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And so it begins.

Matthew Swift is a sorcerer in London, but it is immediately apparent that he is more than that. He has been resurrected after having been dead for approximately two years.

Before the night is out, Matthew is attacked by a "litterbug" (a summoned monster composed of, you guessed it, garbage. Which, for the record, he defeats with a dustbin. Not to ruin it. It's a marvelous scene.

Newly resurrected, Swift's sole missions are to (a) find his murderer and return the favor, and (b) find who resurrected him, find out why, and then, quite likely, kill them as well.

So the novel progresses and you learn more and more peculiar things about this Swift, but things are still left unsaid, left in the dark and unexplained, leaving an air of mystery and suspense until finally the truth is spilled--but not all of it. Only one set of truths. As the book progresses, truths are revealed in clusters until finally the book ends and the final shoe finally drops. The perpetual mystery and vague confusion coupled with the peculiarity of the narrative--due to the intrinsic peculiarity of the narrator--are large parts of what keep the novel moving at the Andantino cum Accelerando (a little faster than "a walking pace" but steadily speeding up) tempo that it does.

 The prose is marvelous and intriguing; Griffin doesn't write in chapters. Sections are broken up with white space or " * * * "; larger sections are broken up as "Part One: [Title]", "The First Interlude: [Title]". It's fascinating. And I totally love it. But there's also a number of places where the writing totally breaks into stream of consciousness style, which is also terribly moving in-context. (Also because I know things you don't. hahaha.) It can catch you off-guard if you allow it to, but if you just get lost in the text as you're reading, it just works right into the story. Some of the paragraphs are these great, barely-connected run-on sentences (one or two sentences total in the paragraph) and it's magnetic. It really keeps you moving through the material because it's different in that it's a frequent change in prose style, which catches your attention even when you aren't conscious of it.

Happy reading!

Parched; The Seventh Sister: Z.L. Arkadie (Parched, Books 1 and 2)

Author’s note: Written prior to 2014, this writing style is no longer indicative of my modus operandi, but I stand by the gist of my points herein.

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Parched by Z. L. Arkadie

Parched is the first book in the so-named series by Z.L. Arkadie. I found the second book (pictured below), The Seventh Sister, free for Amazon Kindle, and because I was bored and it was about vampires, I downloaded it. Upon its completion, I discovered that it's part of a series, which led me to book one, Parched.

The general idea is that Clarity, the protagonist of the first novel (but not the second), can essentially read minds and emotions off the people around her. While in college she meets a man by the name of Baron Ze Feldis, and it turns out that he's a vampire, or in the terms of the novel, a Selell.

Now, as it turns out, Clarity is one of seven, only three of whom do you meet by the end of this novel: Clarity, Adore, and Fawn.

Arkadie creates an interesting "other" world called Enu into which Clarity ventures to learn about who she is and what's going on.

The novel is packed full of mystery and plot for as short as it is, and it's enough to keep you reading.

Except.

1. Arkadie's prose is kind of godawful. I mean, don't get me wrong, her actual words aren't [usually] at fault, but she throws random commas in random places in which they don't belong, she's constantly separating her "in which"es and she called a fence "rod iron" instead of "wrought iron". I get that these are free books on Kindle, but the other five books in the series are all at least $2.99 and, as cheap as that is, I still feel like it's worth somebody's time to edit these things. They aren't that long; I read them both in a matter of a couple of hours total.

The following point(s) apply to both Parched and The Seventh Sister, which I have yet to discuss, but will shortly.

2. Her protagonists are super subject to Mary Sue syndrome. For anybody who doesn't speak author, this is a very common pitfall of authors *coughcough Christopher Paolini's Eragon coughcough* to "self-insert" the author into a text (exhibit A: Bella Swan via Twilight), or, more commonly as used today, over idealize the protagonist to the point where they are literally better than everybody else present. Prettier, smarter, "The One", "The Prophesy", etc. etc. Everyone wants them, they can do no wrong, you name it. Generally speaking, it's the placing of the protagonist above everybody else and largely assuming or insinuating that they are without fault. It's a huge problem in fiction writing, and the term got its start in Star Trek fanfiction (check Wikipedia). For the record, the term for males in this position is Marty Stu, which is, quite frankly, hilarious.

3. Neither of her protagonists in the first two novels have a unique voice with which they tell their stories, think, act, or reason. Both novels are told in the same storytelling style--which I can't condemn too hard because I understand how hard it can be to change your style--but even so, when you're working with characters who are separate people, they need to be employed with their own voices.

At this point, the question does have to become that of prose versus plot: Is the story itself enough to overpower the pitfalls? Honestly, I'm not certain. The fact that I've downloaded the third book to continue the story leans one way, but the fact that every other page I'm swearing to myself because of blatant, unacceptable errors leans the other. I gave it 4 stars on Goodreads because I did really enjoy the book--short as it was--but these are certainly things that have to be taken into consideration.

The Seventh Sister follows Zillael, the youngest (if I recall correctly) of the seven sisters, who is attending high school and taking care of herself because her mother (who actually isn't) is always out on business trips. Whatever.

Apparently Zillael has the gift of speed, which is one of the seven gifts inherited from her father, whom she has never met.

Zillael's teacher and classmate are also special persons--the teacher a guardian I think and her classmate a Wek (which is sorta like a guardian angel or something; it's difficult to explain), and they're charged with protecting her from Selells/vampires, except that she sort of falls for one? While also falling for the Wek. It's complicated.

Anyway.

That's all I can really say about the second one. I read it ages ago and I'm not especially in the mood to do it again. It was far shorter than Parched, and I read in Parched's afterword thingy that The Seventh Sister was more of a filler short or some such a matter. But it was fun. And it was free!

It is still subject to the same complaints as mentioned above, though. So. You know.  I still gave it 4 stars on Goodreads, because I enjoyed it. But. You know.

A common complaint of Arkadie's is that she tends to drop a shit ton of information all at once, or over time, and apparently people have difficulty keeping up or keeping it all straight. I didn't have that issue personally, but I'm used to reading really complicated, convoluted, in-depth material where every detail counts (like my Victorian literature for my university classes, for example. Can anybody say Charles Dickens?).  So that's my thing. No judgment on anybody making the complaint, I'm just saying that I'm used to it so it wasn't a problem.

Happy reading!