Rollins's Review, February 3
Rollins’s Review continues to sprout new sections, like some literary Hydra. There’s so much good fiction released on the ‘stacks every day that I am adding a section for the best short/serial fiction of the week.
—Jay
Neo-Gonzo Highlights
has morphed into his Final Form, the enfant terrible of Barsoom. Here he demonstrates his nigh-Trumpian flair for creative reframing of the self-definitions of his enemies. Tremble, Marxcissists and mortals.
Oklahoma therapist
has a guest essay in that is simple, courageous, and Tonic. Don't put your pronouns in your bio, and don't be bullied by those who side-eye you for not doing so. His reasons are good and clear; they are adaptable by anyone under pressure to conform within an office environment. ("Speak your peace, even if your voice shakes.") has a banger about the continued assault on men’s stories; in particular, the takeover of traditionally masculine genres of gaming by hordes of Marxcissist casuals, a tale as old as time. Warhammer 40K is as manly a nerd genre as they come, H. P. is fucking great, and this essay is clear, crisp Tonic Masculinity.
Short/Serial Fiction Highlights
A bunch of the fellas did short fiction this week, in which they imagined the world as it will be in 2043.
John’s story is characteristically brilliant, in part because like all Great Writers, he plucks half-formed ideas from the collective unconscious, polishing them to a high sheen, and reflecting the world in them
. Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief, etc., etc.Best line:
Turned out we underestimated our species in a lot of ways. We never expected the Soul War to catch like a prairie fire the way it did. We never knew the degree to which our potential had been suppressed by our energies getting siphoned off by the parasite class, or how much would become possible how quickly when all that energy and ingenuity was ours to use again. And we certainly hadn’t known how much technology had simply been kept from us, squirrelled away in black programs where only a few even knew such breakthroughs were possible, let alone that they’d already happened. All in the name of control, which we never really believed we could break free from.
Until we finally started to, and the vicious circle of history started trending virtuous.
John’s story is noble and poetic.
’s story, by contrast, is fucking hilarious.Best line:
“Climate change, you say? Back in those days, racism caused the weather, you know, and the only way to fix it was eatin’ bugs! Still can’t figure it out, myself, but it worked, by golly. The world stopped a-warming—perhaps a tad too much, mind you.” If they but peered upwards to the north they could see the giant wall of ice stretching into the distance—a cool bolt of icy blue reflecting the pale starlight. “But stopped it did!”
I didn’t know Rustpunk was a genre, but goddamned if I don’t know it now.
has written a variation of the world of Logan. Only it doesn’t have Hugh Jackman, and it’s…y’know…good.Best line:
While you think her words over, another drone arrives. This one is hovering on the front porch. Peering through the window, you can only make out the tail-end of the thing, which you mark with your Wando. Its RFI checks out, thankfully; apparently it’s a new bird in Leslie’s flock. Your best guess is that it's one of those pre-war PuMa models, built for pallete drops and other solo, midsize hauls. You holler some tier-two magic words at it, prompting it to leave the package on the porch. But instead of complying, the craft rotates in a slow, dull arc, bangs headfirst into a pillar, then starts blaring a high-pitched, intermittent alarm as it flies away. Could be pilot error, could be the thing's just getting old.
Either way, as you watch it go, you're reminded of the Silver Rule:
“Most shit works pretty good until it don't.”
Best line:
She recognized Eddy Vega first by the bottle in his shade’s grasping hand, the septic scintillation where firelight passed through. Agatha’s soggy limbic system keyed immediately to his return, wrung-out in expectation for him to say something irritating, which of course he did: “I fuckin’ knew it!” The interjection hit quick and sharp, a silver fish-hook in her lip. Just one good reel was all it took to drag Aggie away from Tommy’s gentle current and hatefully ashore.
The Best of The Rest
I don’t know
, but he is a fucking impressive intellect. This is the best essay on method I’ve read recently, and I’m spoiled for choice. Give his latest a gander.This means you’ll be reading selections from novels and novellas. If you can’t work out what’s happening from the excerpt, I guess that means you’ll just have to read the whole thing. ;-)
Johnny's therapeutic specializations include therapy for gun owners; he seems like Very Good People.
Note to self: Drop some saltpeter into John’s eggs Benedict next time we have brunch; this is turning into “The John Carter Review.”
These should be a weekly feature on the main Substack page! And I don't just say that because I get the occasional mention in them. ;)
So much good stuff.
I take exception to "tricked." Let the record show that I gave Rollins a good solid out before tempting him to Google a bafflingly popular kink practically tailored to offend several of his deeply-held sensibilities.
My cup already runneth over this morning with Substacks I can't wait to read and now you've gone and made the situation worse. How am I going to get any work done today? Rollins' Revenge.