Review by Jonathan Wilkins of "Monstrum" by Lottie Mills

I read Lottie Mills’ debut collection Monstrum in a couple of sittings. The stories are that good! They explore what is monstrous, and what we may perceive as otherness. They challenge the reader and society to re-examine all of our deep rooted assumptions. Every single beautifully crafted story is an eerie, gripping and alluring message to our world. And each is unequivocally strong in its own right, unique but connected through the theme of disability and the monstrous, because Mills shows us that being different doesn’t mean we are worse than what might be perceived as the norm. It might be that Monstrum isn’t for every reader, but it is worth every reader having a go. 

"The Mirror" shows a young girl doing the shopping for her supposedly monstrous mistress. Through her small acts of kindness, she makes the relationship work and rejects this conception of monstrosity. There is an implied sexual relationship in the story, and a poignant ending. 

"The Changeling," the opening story, sticks with the reader long after they finish and we can see why it was a prize winner. It’s a sublime, ethereal tale about deformity and physical change, and asks what are our expectations of what we see as normal. The writing is evocative and clear. 

In "The Cuckoo," as the title implies, we are confronted by a strange child who infiltrates a household, and removes the protagonist from her own life with weird ease. This is psychological horror story demonstrating the terror of being replaced, unseen, unprotected. 

"The Body" features a particularly belligerent attitude towards disability. It is set in a world where you can ask for, or purchase a new body. The main character in this story finds it difficult to let go of her old body and struggles to cope with the physical changes that come with a new non-disabled body. When she uses her old wheelchair, it is a particularly discordant moment. She finds that her new, whole body no longer has the muscle memory her original one had, and she is forced to relearn much of what used to be  habitual, her own "normal." Mills never takes the easy way out. She examines how this is not an easy solution and the myriad struggles that it brings with it. The main character is confronted when others find out about her original disabled body, and the complex relationship she now has with the new body.

Mills has shown the reader a world where inhumanity often comes from the ordinary, and where we can see kindness and warmth in those that we have been taught to fear. The result is a beautifully strong collection of stories that are heartbreaking at times as well as being intellectually rigorous, and written in prose that is so pure that it is almost perfection. Monstrum is a critical, politically sensitive piece of disability literature disguised as gothic nightmare, grotesque theatre. Mills invites us into her darkness, and we cannot escape, demanding we see the beauty, potential, power and provocation flourishing there. It is a dazzling, remarkable debut.

About the reviewer
Jonathan Wilkins is 69. He is married to the gorgeous Annie with two wonderful sons. He was a teacher for twenty years, a Waterstones’ bookseller and coached women’s basketball for over thirty years before taking up writing seriously. Nowadays he takes notes for students with Special Needs at Leicester and Warwick Universities. He has had a work commissioned by the UK Arts Council and several pieces published traditionally as well as on-line. He has had poems in magazines and anthologies, art galleries, studios, museums and at Huddersfield Railway Station. He loves writing poetry. For his MA, he wrote a crime novel, Utrecht Snow. He followed it up with Utrecht Rain, and is now writing a third part. He is currently writing a crime series, Poppy Knows Best, set at the end of the Great War and into the early 1920s.

Review by Aswathy Raveendran of "Sisters of the Pentacle" by Paul Taylor-McCartney

Paul Taylor-McCartney’s Sisters of the Pentacle is the first book of The Broken Pentacle Series, and is a fascinating tale that mixes historical drama, witchcraft, time travel, and the quiet power of sisterhood. Set across three very different time periods in the same corner of Wales, the novel follows three young women who are bound by magic, prophecy, and a sacred but damaged pentacle. It’s the kind of book that rewards patient readers. It is layered, atmospheric, and full of heart. Fans of thoughtful fantasy with real historical grounding will likely find themselves pulled in.

The story shifts between 1650, 1900, and 2080, each period anchored by a compelling young witch. In the plague year of 1650, we meet Mary Harries, a twelve-year-old "Knowing One" with the gift of foresight. Tenby is locked down, bodies pile up, and suspicion falls hard on anyone suspected of witchcraft. Mary’s courage, as she helps with the dead, faces angry mobs, and confronts dark forces on Caldey Island, gives the opening section a raw, visceral edge. Her protective grandmother Nancy and a shape-shifting boy named Abe add warmth and danger in equal measure.

Jump forward to 1900, and we’re with Harriet Gordon, a sharp-witted artist living in St Catherine’s Fort. Harriet chafes against her family’s expectations and her brothers’ cruelty. Her discovery of latent powers, helped along by a mysterious ceremonial blade (an athame) and a voice from the future, brings both wonder and trouble. The inclusion of real historical figures like Winston Churchill and H. G. Wells during a dinner party is a clever touch, and it nicely highlights the tension between Harriet’s inner world and the respectable society closing in around her.

In 2080, Indigo Carmichael takes centre stage. Living in a world scarred by environmental collapse, she’s the daughter of a driven scientist whose time-acceleration technology holds both salvation and peril. Indigo’s sections feel more dystopian and introspective, tying the historical threads together through risky experiments and a desperate hope of mending what’s broken across time.

What holds these timelines together is Taylor-McCartney’s clever use of recurring symbols like the circles of power, glowing portals, animal transformations, and fragments of the pentacle itself. The non-linear structure mirrors the book’s central idea which is all about how the history isn’t a straight line but a looping, interconnected web. Some transitions in the story are seamless and some lean a bit heavily on exposition or convenient coincidences. Still, the overall effect is one of building momentum toward something larger.

Thematically, the novel has real weight. The sisterhood depicted in the story goes beyond blood. It’s about shared resilience, passed-down knowledge, and collective resistance against oppression. Each girl pushes back against the constraints of her time period. If it was persecution and plague for Mary, it was rigid Edwardian gender roles for Harriet, and technological hubris for Indigo. Taylor-McCartney handles the "grey area" of magic thoughtfully, refusing to paint it as purely good or evil. There are strong undercurrents about environmental responsibility, the cost of playing with time, and the long shadow of patriarchy. The pentacle becomes a potent symbol of wholeness in a fractured world, and the respect shown to real witchcraft traditions feels genuine rather than superficial.

The three protagonists are the novel’s greatest strength. Mary’s quiet bravery amid horror is moving. Harriet’s artistic eye and dry humour bring welcome lightness and emotional texture. Indigo, dealing with her own physical limitations and inherited burdens, adds a layer of vulnerability that makes her future feel lived in and urgent. Supporting characters like Nancy, Abe, and even the antagonistic Gordon brothers mostly ring true, though a few (particularly in the future sections) lean toward archetype. The historical cameos work better than they have any right to, adding flavour without derailing the story.

Taylor-McCartney’s prose shines when he leans into atmosphere. The plague-stricken streets of Tenby, the misty cliffs at Harrowing Point, and the sterile glow of futuristic labs all come alive. There are lyrical moments during rituals and invocations that genuinely feel magical. That said, some dialogue runs a touch expository, and a few descriptive passages could have been trimmed. Even though there are few quibbles like these, the book overall gives you an immersive reading experience.

Overall, Sisters of the Pentacle is a success. Its world-building across centuries is impressive, and the emotional core which centres around the bond between the "sisters" across time is something that would stay with you. Pacing occasionally lags, especially when lore or technology needs explaining, and the 2080 storyline feels slightly less developed than the historical ones. But these are the growing pains of an ambitious first volume in what promises to be a rich series.

If you enjoy fantasy that takes its time, respects its traditions, and weaves real history with the supernatural, this one is worth your attention. It’s a story about healing what’s broken across time, across families, and across the land itself. I closed the book eager to see where the pentacle leads next.

About the reviewer
Dr. Aswathy Raveendran is an Assistant Professor of English at Jain (Deemed-to-be University), Kochi, India. Her research focuses on twentieth-century female gothic literature, with broader interests in sensory studies, eco-gothic narratives, and cultural memory. She is also a practising artist whose work explores themes of nature, memory, and the sensory imagination.

You can read more about Sisters of the Pentacle by Paul Taylor-McCartney on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Mike O'Driscoll of "Remains" Magazine, Issue 1, ed. Andy Cox

If the visual layout and content seem familiar, it’s because Remains is the welcome new venture from Andy Cox, the publisher and editor of Black Static, the superlative and much-missed magazine of contemporary horror fiction. It features a gorgeous cover and interior artwork from Richard Wagner, whose work also graced the pages of the former magazine, but the real test of Remains resides in the quality of its fiction.

There are seven stories, including ‘Cockatrice,’ a novella from Stephen Bacon, that starts out on familiar ground—an inquisitive child more taken with the monsters of his imagination than with the real ones much closer to home—before morphing into vengeful time travel tale with echoes of Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys. The shifting perspectives in a narrative that touches on infidelity, the power of the imagination, childhood sexual abuse, and the struggle to unsee the horrors one sees, are handled with great skill and compassion by Bacon.

Giselle Leeb’s story ‘Inclusions’ is a subtle and suggestive take on the haunted house theme. It maintains a certain distance from its human characters—the last of a group of writers gathered for a weekend workshop—allowing us to observe their interactions through the indifferent gaze of the house itself.

‘Her Little Ray of Sunshine’ is the story that most clearly evokes the tone of Black Static—no surprise considering it’s written by Neil Williamson, a regular contributor to the former magazine. It’s an unsettling and thought-provoking piece, reminiscent of much Slipstream fiction of the 1990s, with its quiet sense of outrage, even despair, at the extent of the psychological and physical harm men perpetrate on women, and even more so the lies and excuses we deploy to justify our weaknesses to ourselves. 

Also recalling 12 Monkeys, but this time more explicitly, is Jolie Toomajan’s ‘A Heartwarming Tale of a Girl and Her Monkey.’ The tone here is elusive, even somewhat disjointed, such that protagonist Karyan’s motives in unleashing an apocalypse are never quite clear. Yet perhaps that sense of disconnection leads her to bond more closely with the monkey she liberates than with her human co-workers, which may be precisely the point.

The remaining stories range thematically from the delusion of overweening ambition (Rich Larson), to the peril of one’s life being exploited for fictional purposes (Anna Tambour). The final story, James Cooper’s ‘Nothing Special,’ offers a particularly bleak, noirish variation on the cynicism and self-loathing engendered by succumbing to the Hollywood dream.

About the reviewer
Mike O’Driscoll is a writer living in Swansea. His work has appeared in Black Static, Interzone, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous anthologies. His story ‘Sounds Like’ was adapted for a TV movie by Brad Anderson, as part of the Masters of Horror series. Mike blogs on different aspects of genre writing and film here. 

Review by Colin Gardiner of "We Have Always Lived in the Castle" by Shirley Jackson

Shirley Jackson is a masterful storyteller who perfected the idea of a twentieth-century American Gothic – where the dark and twisted thoughts of seemingly normal characters are revealed in gripping and shocking detail.

Her novel We Have Always Lived in the Castle centres on the life of the remnants of the Blackwood family, who live in self-imposed seclusion in their grand home at the edge of a hostile village in rural Vermont.

Jackson expertly juxtaposes the "vulgar" behaviour of the villagers with the eccentric life of the Blackwood family, a seemingly happy but fragile existence, under threat from familial tension, small-town resentment and dark secrets.

This is a powerful novel of family tragedy, isolation and magic, told through the singular and unpredictable prism of the young protagonist’s consciousness. The central character, eighteen-year-old Mary Katherine "Merricat" Blackwood, has to be one of the most fascinating and multifaceted creations in modern literature. Jackson gives us insight into the macabre thoughts of this unique eighteen-year-old teenager, on the cusp of an unwanted adult-hood. Merricat is child-like, yet sharp as a knife. She is a daydreamer in touch with nature who harbours thoughts of violent retribution on those who seek to destroy her idyllic existence with her sister and uncle.

The novel is suffused with a beautiful dark magic – from the totemic objects buried or nailed around the house by Merricat – to the gothic trappings of the family home and its enchanted gardens. Jackson casts a spell on the reader in this bewitching anti-coming-of-age tale.


About the reviewer 
Colin Gardiner is following a part-time Masters degree in Creative Writing at the University of University. His interests include short story writing, screen writing and poetry. He lives and works in Coventry with his husband and two cats.

Review by Kevan Manwaring of "The Loney" by Andrew Michael Hurley

This impressive debut novel, previously published by Tartarus Press, has sucked in accolades like quicksand – which would normally be enough to put me off reading it, being the contrarian that I am, but in this case I decided to give it a punt (thanks to my local library – use ‘em or lose ‘em). For once the praise seems justified. The Loney is an atmospheric study in faith, truth and the uncanny. It focuses on two brothers – one an elective mute – growing up in a Catholic corner of 1970s London. The universe of the novel is limited to their immediate family – the overbearing ‘Mummer’ and forebearing ‘Farther’ – and faith community, the claustrophobic, competitive parish riddled with sins, small and large. When their much-loved priest dies, a new Father tries his best to shepherd this unruly, opinionated flock. The annual pilgrimage to a shrine on the Lancashire coast, to the lonely stretch of the title, vividly evoked by Hurley, is hoped to cure all ills – especially the mutism of ‘Hanny’, the narrator’s brother. Instead, the trip opens up a whole can of worms. I must admit that I found the relentless pettiness and neurotic Catholic minutiae less engaging than the Loney itself – which is the real ‘star’ of this narrative. The author succeeds in creating a tangible sense of place, one that epitomizes the ‘English eerie’ as discussed by Robert Macfarlane and others. The Loney has a brooding sense of malevolence, as though the bleak section of coastline was the antagonist itself. Something chthonic and unwelcoming lingers there. The remoteness and neglect provides a zone of projection for the inchoate fears of urbanites (something that has been happening in English Literature since Beowulf). Whether the drear flatlands of the Fens, the grim North Country of the Gawain poet, or the blasted heath of Shakespeare, Britain’s few wildernesses offer a dark playground for imagined terrors. There are shades of The Wicker Man here – the spectre of dodgy pagan rituals awaiting the unwary who stumble upon them (the pilgrims might as well have ‘sacrifice’ pinned on their backs), although the ‘terror’ scale here is less Hammer, and more Hill. Hurley’s aesthetic reminded me of many of Susan Hill’s settings – lonely stretches of coastline, causewayed islets, chancy footing and vindictive tides. Madness always in the wings, or in the annexe. The Loney’s ‘heart of darkness’, Coldbarrow, could be in Hill’s real estate portfolio. One could imagine The Woman in Black’s sister living there. The stifling religiosity, small-mindedness and demonization of difference also reminded me of Jeanette Winterson’s Oranges are Not the Only Fruit. And I found shades of Graham Joyce also – although his prose has more warmth and humour to it – and a broader church than depicted here. The Loney is simply modern Gothic. Hurley has done nothing new under the sun here, but as a debut it is supremely confident, polished and promising. His prose is unshowy, no-nonsense, and easy-to-read, but there are poetic flourishes – distinctive dialect, arresting analogies, striking imagery – which make it punch above its weight at times. The ending is open and unsettling. Hurley resists exegesis and closure. What we are to make of the strange events is left to us to gnaw over in the middle of the night, while the existential wind of nameless terrors howls outside. Take it on holiday with you to an isolated cottage and scare the bejeezus out of yourself.


About the reviewer
Kevan Manwaring is currently undertaking a Creative Writing PhD at the University of Leicester (in the form of a novel). He is an Eccles Centre Postgraduate Fellow in North American Studies at the British Library, and teaches creative writing for the Open University. One day he hopes to have a proper job. Blog: https://thebardicacademic.wordpress.com/