With my brother by my side, our mission gained momentum. We reached out to our sisters, cousins, and distant relatives, sharing our vision of a reunited family. Some were hesitant at first, but as we shared stories and photographs from our past, their hearts began to soften.

Months of planning and coordination culminated in a grand reunion at the old family mansion. The halls that had once echoed with loneliness now rang with laughter and music. Each room was filled with joyous conversations and heartfelt embraces, as old wounds were healed, and new bonds were forged.

Standing amidst the warmth of my family, I knew that our love was stronger than the darkness that had once threatened to consume us. Together, we would ensure that the mansion's legacy would live on, not as a monument to loss, but as a testament to the enduring power of love and family.

(This is a story review—the story it refers to follows after if you are interested)

Well, folks, this is it—my last review before I can finally retire (again?) to the quiet comfort of my crusty old armchair, a glass of whiskey, and the pleasure of never having to read another tortured piece of fiction. But before I hang up my reviewer’s hat, let’s dissect this little romp through mediocrity, shall we?

Misheard is a frantic jaunt through the mind of Ronald, a man who—much like this story—sprints headlong into confusion, misunderstanding, and implausible conclusions. The plot ostensibly revolves around Ronald’s paranoia, triggered by a simple session with Dr. Riccola, a therapist who likely (absolutely?) has sinister secrets lurking beneath her professional exterior. The key players? Ronald, who has a knack for making mountains out of molehills, and Caroline, the mysterious woman who weaves through his thoughts, much like my ex-wife used to weave through mine, leaving chaos and misplaced affections in her wake.

Ah, Caroline—warm, kind, and "a bit mysterious." That’s one way to describe her. But to me, she’s more reminiscent of my ex-wife, Margaret, the queen of dropped hints and shadowy allusions. Just like Caroline, Margaret had a way of making you question everything you thought you knew (she tried to tell me). Ronald, poor sap, is much the same—drawn to the enigma that is Caroline, only to find himself chasing phantoms through a park, breathless and bewildered. He could’ve saved himself the trouble by realizing what I’ve known for years: sometimes, the mystery isn’t worth the headache. Sometimes, the best solution is a strong cup of coffee and a (real!) therapist.

Now, about Dr. Riccola’s office, where this whole melodrama takes root. The author leaves it a blank slate—an empty stage waiting for someone to paint in the details. But you know what? Let me fill in those gaps for you. It’s sterile, of course—like all therapists’ offices, with neutral-toned walls that could use a splash of color and an Ikea bookshelf that’s one hard stare away from collapsing under the weight of unread self-help books. The carpet? A drab, beige monstrosity that swallows the sound of your footsteps, making the room feel like a padded cell for the mind’s more frivolous wanderings. And those chairs—dear God, those chairs—upholstered in a fabric that seems designed to cling to your insecurities as you spill them out onto the mahogany desk that separates you from Dr. Riccola’s piercing gaze.

How do I know all this, you ask? Ah, well, here’s a twist you actually didn’t see coming from a mile away. You see, Dr. Riccola isn’t just any therapist—she’s (was?) my mother. Yes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, though in her case, it’s an apple inked onto her ankle, a tattoo that’s sparked more than a few late-night, whiskey-soaked musings on the nature of maternal influence and unresolved Oedipal complexes.

But I digress. The story wants you to feel a chill when Ronald spots that tattoo, as if suddenly everything clicks into place. But for me, it was just another reminder that some stories are better left untold, some mysteries better left unsolved. Ronald’s paranoia is no match for the reality I’ve known all my life—that Dr. Riccola, for all her wisdom, is just a woman doing her job, like any other. And that tattoo? Well, it’s a relic of her rebellious youth, nothing more. The real rub is that I, a jaded, world-weary reviewer, am the product of that very office, shaped by its sterile surroundings and my mother’s tireless attempts to figure out why her son would rather write scathing reviews than come to terms with his own psychological baggage.

So there you have it, dear readers. My final words on a final book—a story that, like my career (life?), had potential but ultimately falls short, leaving more questions than answers, more doubts than resolutions. Perhaps, in some way, that’s fitting. After all, as I close this chapter of my life (again?), I find myself in the same place as Ronald—standing in the hallway of my mother’s office, wondering what it all meant and realizing that, in the end, some things are better left unresolved—even your own death.

Misheard

"Your time is up. Better run!"

Ronald bolted into the nearby park, his breath ragged, heart pounding. The sun hung low, casting long shadows as he pushed himself harder, the words looping in his mind.

He glanced over his shoulder, expecting dark figures in pursuit, but saw only the empty park and his own pounding footsteps. His mind raced, trying to piece together what had led him here, fleeing like a hunted animal.

It started with Caroline. She was warm, kind, a bit mysterious—qualities that drew him in. They had spent hours together, exploring the city, sharing stories. She had mentioned a minor incident from her past, something she shrugged off. But now, as Ronald ran for his life, that trivial detail seemed to hold ominous weight.

He struggled to remember specifics, but adrenaline blurred his thoughts. Caroline had spoken of a place, maybe a person. She had mentioned a friend, someone who helped her through a dark time. Who was that? He had been so absorbed in her, so caught up in their time together, that he hadn't given it much thought then. Now, every word felt loaded with meaning, as if he had missed something crucial, something dangerous.

As he weaved through the trees, his legs burning, his mind flashed back to the moment this madness began. He was in Dr. Riccola’s office, discussing Caroline, how she made him feel alive but also anxious, like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That session was supposed to help him understand his feelings, but instead, it led to this. The last thing Dr. Riccola had said, just as Ronald was leaving, now came into focus:

“Your time is up, Mister Ron!”

Ahh! “Ron, not run!” It had been just a simple statement to indicate their session was over. But lost in thought, half-listening, those words had twisted into something sinister, fueled by his anxieties.

He had bolted from the office, paranoia snapping something inside him, sending him running without fully understanding why. And now, here he was, in the park, fleeing from an imagined enemy. Relief washed over him as he realized how absurd it all was. He could already hear the teasing he would endure for this—a funny story to tell, nothing more.

But then, it clicked. Caroline had mentioned a friend, someone nicknamed "Cough Drop," who had killed someone—a secret Caroline had kept. The friend had blonde hair and wore an "apple cap." These details, vague at the time, now loomed large in Ronald's mind. In a leap of irrational logic, his subconscious had linked "Riccola" with Ricola throat lozenges, which he had recently seen in a commercial. Could Dr. Riccola be that friend?

The idea was ridiculous, absurd even. But in his panicked state, it had seemed plausible enough to send him sprinting from the office. He laughed at the thought—Dr. Riccola was blonde. Had that been enough to trigger this? Now that his rational mind had caught up, he couldn’t believe how foolish he had been. Determined to clear the air, Ronald turned and made his way back to Dr. Riccola’s office.

When he arrived, he burst through the door, slightly out of breath but relieved. He quickly explained to Dr. Riccola what had happened, how his mind had twisted innocent details into something sinister. They shared a laugh, and Dr. Riccola, still smiling, walked him to the door.

As he was about to leave, something caught his eye. There, on her left ankle, was a small apple tattoo.

Ronald's heart skipped a beat. The smile faded from his face as he looked up at Dr. Riccola. She noticed his gaze and followed it to her ankle, where the tattoo was plainly visible. A strange, knowing look passed between them. Ronald felt a chill run down his spine. He forced a smile, nodded awkwardly, and stepped into the hallway.

As the door clicked shut behind him, his mind raced. The apple tattoo—just a coincidence, he told himself, but it gnawed at him. She wasn’t wearing a cap. He forced a smile, trying to dismiss the unease creeping up his spine. But as he walked down the hallway, the laughter they had shared felt forced, the warmth in Dr. Riccola's eyes tinged with something he couldn’t place. He paused, glancing back at the closed door, his pulse quickening. Maybe it was nothing, just a harmless tattoo. But as he turned and headed for the stairs, a cold knot of uncertainty tightened in his chest, refusing to let go. “Tat, not cap!”

It’s got Oscar winning story where the other name the garden delights us to philosophical power of Socrates and the greats and the literary genius of Shakespeare. It’s original and it’s original. It’s pose is that that soldier romanticising his lover it’s brilliant it’s philosophical meaning and a sense of how the Internet and YouTube and things it’s just an expression of sensational as violence rather than anything meaningful of anything use basically it’s a scam of our thoughts and ideas of humanity , award is the best science-fiction of this could be it

‘Work It Out’ is a call to arms for freedom from the bonds of a cynical world, calling for the listener to embrace the changes that come from within. It is a song about both letting go and moving on and finding a reason to continue along your path when times could see at all lost. It is as hopeful as it is grounded, and a stoic hymn for the surviving optimists still marching for a brighter world. The lyrics are direct but inviting, welcoming you to consider your own perspective and to consider your own ‘golden chain’, the conflicting metaphor Drew employs for the burdens we carry with us. Drew, however, views a burden in a considerably positive light, stating near-cynical imagery in an otherwise hopeful frame.

Drew enjoys walking most of all, and stayed these lyrics came to him on an enlightening adventure across Brontë County. Drew trekked across hills from Howarth to Hebden Bridge, crossing Ram’s in the throes of mating season and stopping for a cheese sandwich at Wuthering Heights. Drew uses hiking as a means of connecting with himself and finding what drives him, and that same walking imagery is evoked in both the lyrics and gently strolling music that ticks along the way-by.

Well layered and believable. When he is first met he comes across as violent and cruel but as you get to know his past and the origination of his anger then you realise he is struggling to cope with his losses and his youth. Once you understand him a bit further on he seems stronger and braver. A wee bit exaggerated at times and has a tendency to overreact.

Very nice, but try to be more focused and creative with your language and word choice. Keep on trying!!

My leg bounces Because you didn’t say Oh this sits taken And I guess that’s okay I just wish I wasn’t an easy replacement That maybe since I started To join the “trends” Taht I’d be accepted But I guess I was wrong Cus in the end I’m still moving seats Because mine gets taken.

Blonde hair, Blue eyes reflecting, Innocence and a bright path, a young girl, A younger version of myself, searching, For her place in a vast world.

She set forth, arms wide, the spark, In those blue eyes shining, not yet dimmed, Oblivious to the monsters slithering beneath, Her own skin, and the war to come. ————— This poem does a fantastic job of capturing the essence of youthful innocence. The imagery is so vivid, you can almost see the "Blonde hair, Blue eyes reflecting" and feel the excitement of a young girl stepping out into the world. The phrase "Innocence and a bright path" really hits home, reminding us of that hopeful, anything-is-possible feeling we all have when we're young.

The shift from innocence to awareness is handled beautifully. When the speaker reflects on a "younger version of myself, searching," it brings in a sense of nostalgia and the universal quest for finding one's place in the world. It’s a feeling we all know too well.

Then, the poem takes a turn with the mention of "monsters slithering beneath." That’s such a strong image—it makes you think of the hidden challenges and inner demons we all face. The word "slithering" adds a creepy, unsettling vibe, hinting that not all dangers are obvious at first glance.

The closing lines pack a punch. The spark in the girl's eyes, "not yet dimmed," symbolizes hope and resilience, even in the face of the "war to come." This contrast between innocence and impending struggle really makes you think about your own journey and the obstacles you've had to overcome.

In conclusion, this poem is a beautiful reflection on the transition from the innocence of youth to the awareness of life's hidden challenges. It reminds us that while we may start out with bright eyes and hopeful hearts, we must be prepared for the monsters we might encounter, both out in the world and within ourselves. The real challenge is recognizing and facing those inner monsters.

It is quite a piece of work. The author clearly took her time and was very thoughtful. She looks at death as if it not just a moment, but the epilogue to a fantastic story. She uses mythology to highlight the stories that we here, whether they are real or not. She also had a great wonderful introduction with and heart breaking conclusion. She leaves the readers with a warning. “So many people have already made it. Don’t be the first that doesn’t.” The breath taking moment of a cliffhanger is what makes this poems so special.

Static reverberated across the control tower. Frantically Bilbao adjust to get a clear message.

“Look I didn’t ask to be picked. None of us did. We have a choice take the mission—you mean suicide mission don’t you Alph?—cool down Beta we can take the mission which will surely result in one or more of our being demaged beyond repair. Or we can try to hide. Don’t cry Delt. You’ll get Charlie started.— there’s a third option. We can fight. How many more of us will crash on the risky transports? We’re more than mindless machines. We are people too in our way and not just a line item.”

Excerpt from New Sheriff In Town by Regina Raiford Babcock

The bombastic love child of Afro-punk sci fi and Western thrillers, New Sheriff in Town offers a blender set to max spin on genre fiction grafted to modern day culture politics. A flash novel each short short story chapter is a perfect literary bite.

Set three years after a devastating Android human civil war, New Sheriff is at its heart a mystery. As a reader rocketing from the past to the novel’s futuristic frontier I became a participant. Tending the frozen landscape or following down clues, I dived deep into Raiford Babcock’s sophomore novel. Ex partners Two Axe and Hatchet race to solve a double homicide of Android soldiers turned farmers before racial tensions boil over.

The twisty tales from Raiford Babcock’s dementedly delicious previous collection, Nice Things, didn’t prepare me for this genre blurring romp. I don’t want to leave the moons of Saturn.