Blog Archives
Poetic Mind 2: The Collection
Poetic Mind 2: The Collection felt to me like a long, earnest conversation between bravado and vulnerability. Across poems about self-belief, grief, love, fantasy, war, exhaustion, and social cruelty, John Nevel keeps returning to the same central impulse: to turn pain into encouragement, and imagination into a kind of shelter. The book moves from the chest-thumping creative comeback of “Return of the Machine” and “Born a Legend” into more tender and wounded terrain such as “Shadows,” “PTSD,” and “Operation Iraqi Freedom,” then loops back toward resilience in poems like “Like a Phoenix” and “Change.” What held it together for me was that sense of a mind trying, over and over, to wrestle darkness into language and come out with something useful for another person.
What I responded to most was the book’s emotional directness. Nevel isn’t coy, and he isn’t interested in hiding behind irony. When “Shadows” lingers with the dead through scent, television reflections, and the strange comfort of almost-seeing someone again, it has a real ache to it; when “Take My Hand” and “Keep Your Head Up” insist on dignity for the lonely, the poor, the traumatized, and the judged, the tenderness feels lived rather than borrowed. Even the poems that lean hardest into uplift carry some friction under them, because again and again the speaker sounds like someone who has actually been bruised by the world he’s trying to repair. I liked that sincerity.
The collection is at its strongest when the swagger relaxes and the image gets room to breathe. The blizzard in “Snowfall,” the resurrected beast of “Revenge of the Dragon,” the handmade panic and recovery in “Destruction of Words,” and the barracks-to-Iraq movement in “Operation Iraqi Freedom” all gave me something concrete to stand inside. At the same time, the book’s habits are very clear: it loves repetition, declarative endings, motivational refrains, and an almost performative intensity. Sometimes that gives the poems a pulse and a stage voice. Even when I found the rhetoric a little relentless, I rarely doubted the conviction behind it. And I did admire how fully Nevel commits to his ideas, especially his belief that poetry should comfort, testify, and push back against humiliation, prejudice, and despair.
Poetic Mind 2 is heartfelt and thought-provoking. It’s not a chilly, mannered collection that wants to be admired from a distance. It wants to reach across the table, grab you, and tell you to keep going. I think that urgency is the book’s identity. I’d recommend it most to readers who like accessible, emotionally candid poetry, especially anyone drawn to themes of resilience, recovery, faith, military memory, and everyday encouragement. This is a book for readers who want poetry to mean what it says.
Pages: 193 | ASIN : B0GSKK2TWC
The Woman in the Third Floor Front
Richard Scharine’s The Woman in the Third Floor Front is a story collection arranged in sections: Utah, Law and Order, Past Lives, and Close to Home, and it moves through romance, regional fiction, political reflection, memory, family, and elegy with unusual ease. The title story opens with Jack, hobbled after a motorcycle crash and freshly divorced, stumbling by chance into a stopover town where an airline delay, a widow who runs a hotel and massage business, and a child grieving his father turn accident into reprieve; elsewhere, the book ranges from a journalist’s reckoning with western land politics in “When I Go, I Leave No Trace” to intimate, family-centered pieces later in the volume that turn more openly autobiographical and reflective. What binds the collection is Scharine’s interest in people who are no longer where they thought they would be, yet are still trying, stubbornly, to make a livable meaning out of the remainder.
What I admired most was the book’s tonal confidence. Scharine is willing to let a story be earnest without turning syrupy, and willing to let intelligence arrive wearing ordinary clothes. In the title piece, music is not decoration but structure: standards and country songs keep surfacing as emotional evidence, almost like witness testimony, and by the time Constance answers “He’ll Have to Go” with “He’ll Have to Stay,” the scene has become both a small-town performance and a public act of choosing life again. I also liked the collection’s tolerance for crookedness, for wounded people, compromised people, people who embarrass themselves before they improve. Jack is not noble at the outset; that matters. The redemption here is not glossy. It limps. That gives the best stories a hard-earned warmth rather than a prefab glow.
Scharine sometimes overexplains a motive or theme just after dramatizing it well, and now and then the narration steps in with a teacherly finger raised when the scene has already done the work. But even that has a strange charm, because it feels continuous with the book’s larger personality: learned, conversational, unembarrassed by references to songs, politics, Shakespeare, journalism, and grief all sharing the same table. I came away feeling that the collection’s real subject is not plot but afterlife in the secular sense, the second act after divorce, bereavement, disillusionment, professional diminishment, or the long weathering of a place. Several later pieces deepen that feeling by turning toward kinship, memory, and haunting, making the book less a display case of separate stories than a cumulative meditation on what remains.
I’d recommend The Woman in the Third Floor Front to readers of literary fiction, short story collections, regional fiction, character-driven fiction, and contemporary historical fiction who like humane books with a little grain in the wood. Readers who admire the plainspoken emotional intelligence of Kent Haruf, or the way Elizabeth Strout lets ordinary lives carry uncommon weight, will probably find familiar pleasures here, though Scharine is more discursive and more musically inclined than either. This is a book for people who believe stories can be rueful, civic-minded, romantic, and haunted all at once.
Pages: 164 | ASIN : B0GGF1V3BC
It Became Much Darker
Dark Threads tells three haunting dark-fantasy stories where desperate survivors endure brutal magic and impossible choices in worlds crumbling under their own shadows. What sparked the initial idea for Dark Threads, and did one story come first?
The Breath Borrower was the first dark-fantasy story I’d ever written. I wrote it specifically for the Writers of the Future contest about five years ago. When I first had the idea, I don’t think it was dark, per se, but as the story developed, the weight of it grew, and it became much darker.
It received a Silver Honorable Mention in the contest, and I really loved the story, but after trying for a few years to get it published—and receiving a few quite nice rejection letters—I decided to share it with readers on my own. The other two stories in this volume had also received HM’s in the contest, and since they were also rather grim and dark, I thought they’d work well together.
I plan to continue the series, since I enjoy dwelling dark occasionally, but their release may be erratic since I write across multiple genres, and these types of stories can be emotionally intense to create.
The magic systems are uniquely brutal. How did you approach designing magic that feels both inventive and emotionally costly?
I think because of the depth of magic involved in these stories, the giving or receiving of something from inside the characters themselves, it made the cost automatically become greater and more intimate. Very personal. And because of that, it became a choice for each character. Risking their own life for others. Even in the case of Vapors of Misuse, the twins are seeking revenge, but also an end to the misery their lives are a part of, either for each other, or for the community after they’re gone.
Your characters often operate in moral gray zones. How do you balance empathy with their harsher decisions?
Once I started coming up with the ideas, the characters themselves took over. That often happens in my writing. They flesh themselves out. They become very real, and real people often have far more gray in them than edging toward black or white. And the gray is interesting to explore.
It goes back to the choice thing. Under “normal” circumstances, the main characters would be ordinary people, but I’ve thrown them into some type of chaos, and they have to react while trying to still keep part of themselves…well, themselves.
The endings are powerful but intentionally not tidy. How do you know when a story with this much darkness has reached its conclusion?
Life isn’t very tidy. A lot of my short stories feel like vignettes of the character’s life to me. You know things were happening before this moment, which are sometimes alluded to, giving the reader more background, but you also get the feeling something else will probably come after the story, though perhaps not with the central character.
The vignette ends at a pause, like the end of an exhale. The flow of that particular moment narrows until you break away. It’s not always a clean break. Something might not be fully resolved. It’s a bit like ending on a discordant note in music. It might leave you feeling a little disturbed, but glad it’s fading away at the same time.
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In this collection of haunting dark fantasy tales, mortals and spirits alike wrestle with destiny, sacrifice, and the cost of power.
In The Breath Borrower, a sacred thief of breath must choose between duty and mercy in a city where life and death hang on a whisper.
The Withering follows a lone scholar through the dream-infested Underland, seeking a cure for a dying world—even as her own body fades.
And in Vapors of Misuse, a cursed twin races against time to use forbidden magic against a ruthless tyrant—before he is consumed by the very power he wields.
These are not stories of easy victories or neat endings. They are stories of survival, of sacrifice, and of what lingers when hope is gone.
Dark Threads: A Gathering of Dark Fantasy Tales, Vol.1
Kat Farrow’s Dark Threads is a collection of three short, dark fantasy stories. Each one explores a different, gloomy world full of desperate people. “The Breath Borrower” is about a holy thief who steals breath from the living to give to the dying. “The Withering” follows a scholar trying to save her world as it, and she, fade away. The last story, “Vapors of Misuse,” is a bleak tale of two twins bound by magic and a thirst for revenge against a tyrant. All three stories are tied together by themes of sacrifice, grim choices, and magic that costs way too much.
Farrow builds these worlds that feel incredibly heavy and real. You can almost smell the back alleys in “The Breath Borrower” or feel the chill of the Underland in “The Withering.” It’s not flashy writing. It’s solid and direct, and it uses that simplicity to hit you hard. I felt a real sense of dread and hopelessness seeping from the pages. These stories are not about heroes. They are about survivors, and the writing makes you feel the weight of that survival. It’s an impressive feat, making things feel so gloomy yet so compelling.
What really stuck with me were the ideas. The magic systems are brutal. The whole idea of a third lung for borrowing breath was new to me, and it was wrapped up in so much guilt and duty for the main character. The final story, “Vapors of Misuse,” was just a gut-punch of an idea. The magic, the blood ritual, the twin-bond, the “Seizing,” it was all so tangled and dark. I found myself thinking about the characters long after I finished. They aren’t always likable, but their motives are powerful. They are driven by things like revenge or a desperate, fading hope, and that felt incredibly human, even in these dark fantasy worlds.
Dark Threads is a heavy read, and I mean that as a compliment. The stories are tough, and the endings are not neat, tidy bows. They’re bloody, and they’re sad, and they feel earned. I would definitely recommend this book. If you love your fantasy truly dark, and you like stories that make you feel something real and gritty, you should pick this up.
Pages: 79 | ASIN: B0FM6DD3ZR
My Sister’s Quilt
My Sister’s Quilt is a tender and heartfelt collection of short stories woven together by the enduring art of quilting and the threads of family, love, and legacy. Across its pages, the book travels through time, from the age of sailing ships and noble estates to the shadowed years of the Underground Railroad, linking each story with a common motif of fabric and memory. Each story, though distinct in setting and character, feels stitched from the same cloth of compassion, strength, and the quiet resilience of women who endure, create, and remember.
The writing has an old-fashioned gentleness to it, like something you’d hear on a front porch swing in late afternoon. Shawgo writes simply but with feeling. Her characters are vivid without being forced, and her dialogue carries a kind of natural rhythm that makes even the smallest moments, like sewing a stitch or sharing a meal, feel important. Sometimes the pacing slowed a bit more than I’d like, but that slowness felt right for the kind of storytelling she’s doing. It invites you to linger, to feel the texture of the scenes instead of rushing through them.
What I loved most was how deeply emotional this book became without ever turning sentimental. The relationships between sisters, mothers, and daughters are tender, sometimes strained, but always human. There’s a sense that the quilts are more than fabric. They’re witnesses, binding generations together through hardship and joy. I felt both comforted and stirred, like the stories were asking me to think about what we pass on and how we remember those who came before us. The writing has a warmth that sneaks up on you.
I’d recommend My Sister’s Quilt to readers who love quiet, heartfelt storytelling, especially those drawn to historical fiction, women’s lives, and family sagas. It’s for anyone who has ever held something handmade and felt the history in it. This book would speak beautifully to quilters, to daughters, and to anyone who believes stories, like stitches, can hold us together when everything else falls apart.
Pages: 146 | ASIN: B0FSW2L1MC
What Is Unseen
J. Andrew Rice’s What Is Unseen weaves together the stories of people wrestling with grief, faith, morality, and redemption in small-town Texas. The novel follows several characters, Kyle Luman, a grieving widower; Phylicia Jones, a civil rights attorney returning home after loss; and Ben Mueller, a hardworking man dealing with betrayal and corruption. Their paths cross in a world where hope and pain walk hand in hand, and where unseen forces, faith, conscience, and community, shape every life. The story unfolds gently, yet it builds momentum through layered perspectives and a shared struggle for meaning. Rice uses East Texas not just as a backdrop but as a living presence, a place heavy with history, heat, and hidden grace.
Reading this book hit me harder than I expected. The writing has an easy rhythm, simple but deep, like someone telling you their story over coffee on a quiet porch. Rice doesn’t rush his characters or their pain, and that patience made me care about them. Kyle’s loss felt real, almost raw, and his slow climb out of grief was both painful and uplifting. The dialogue felt like a homegrown conversation, unpretentious and familiar. At times, though, the story takes its time, and some descriptions felt more like journal entries than storytelling. Still, there’s beauty in the way Rice captures human resilience. The message about hope, faith, and the unseen hand that steadies us is one that sticks with you.
I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to feel so attached to these people. Rice brings out a kind of emotional honesty that sneaks up on you. The novel reminded me that good and bad often live side by side, and sometimes the right thing is murky, not shining. The characters are flawed, sometimes unlikeable, but always relatable. There’s something tender about that. The way grief meets faith, how bitterness bends toward forgiveness, it all feels earned, not forced. The story doesn’t preach, but it does nudge you toward reflection. It made me think about what I hold onto and what I let go of.
I’d recommend What Is Unseen to anyone who likes stories about redemption, faith, or small-town life with real heart. It’s perfect for readers who enjoy character-driven fiction and don’t mind a slow burn. This isn’t a thriller or a love story, it’s a quiet journey through brokenness toward light. For those who’ve lost something or someone and are still figuring out what comes next, this book will feel like a friend.
Pages: 364 | ASIN: B0F861FZ9Z
Prickly Pears: A Collection of Short Fiction
Prickly Pears is a vivid and haunting collection of short stories that explores the fragile edges of humanity. Author Isabelle B.L moves through memory, war, love, loss, and womanhood with language that cuts and soothes at the same time. The stories drift from Sicily’s sunlit hills to modern kitchens, from whispering ghosts to restless children. Each piece feels like a dream you only half remember but can’t shake off. Her characters are bruised but alive, her settings rich with scent and sound. The book opens with wartime childhood and stretches into surreal, delicate tales that merge body and mind, reality and metaphor, until they blur into one another.
I kept stopping to reread sentences because they were too beautiful to move past. The author’s writing is fearless, raw, poetic, and weird in the best way. She doesn’t write to please, she writes to uncover. Sometimes I caught myself holding my breath, especially in pieces like “Marigold Dawns” and “The Jam Jar,” where ordinary acts, making tea, making jam, turn into rituals of grief and rebirth. The way she ties emotion to physical texture made me ache.
The darkness doesn’t just lurk in the corners; it sits right in the middle of the page. Some stories felt like confessions. Yet I kept reading because of how relatable it all was. There’s an honesty that burns. I could sense the author’s compassion even when her characters were cruel or broken. The rhythm of her writing carried me through it. It’s lyrical but never soft. It reminded me that pain and beauty often live in the same place, and she isn’t afraid to show that.
Prickly Pears isn’t a book for comfort; it’s a book for feeling. It’s for readers who like language that stings a little, who aren’t afraid of stories that leave scratches. I’d recommend it to anyone who loves short fiction. If you enjoy authors like Carmen Maria Machado or Clarice Lispector, you’ll find something electric here.
Pages: 205 | ASIN: B0C8841Q2C
