#maybe ill try some prose/hybrid

[ablazeinhim]

I went out with my childhood bestie's friend group the other night and it really made me realize that I'm very picky about my friends. 😂

***

As I've been reflecting on it the past couple days I've put a few things together about like who somebody was and stories my friend has told me. And girl, some some of these situations and some of these people's actions and attitudes, like... I find it a little hard to believe that these are my friend's type of people.

***

And maybe they were all just having really bad days/times in life when those things happened and they acted that way, but some of them I'm like yeah I would be pulling away hard. I would always rather have fewer friends and know they're supportive and dependable and honest and loving, than many friends who aren't a perfect fit. And often that means I do shit alone, because my friends are busy people, or they live far. And I'm ok with that.

I don't wanna mask in front of my friends, or watch what I say, or be scared to talk about what I believe. I need open communication and mutual respect.

***I rambled about the night and decided it was distracting from what I actually wanted to say so I cut that part out of the middle and put it here in case you want to read the post in it's og form:

I can fall in love in an instant and vibe with people so hard, so it's not that. Like the other week I was in Ohio for a friend's wedding and I got to meet his twin brother and childhood friends and fucking loved them all. The vibes were excellent, the energy exquisite. Me and one of them laughed constantly when next to each other. No awkwardness at all. We took stupid group pictures in the yard. I left longing to be their friend.

That was not the vibe of the other evening. I didn't have a bad time, but I didn't gel with any of them. My friend and I carpooled, so on the way home she did tell me that it was kind of a weird night.

But I don't think it would have made a difference.

It was clear a couple of them were "partiers." I love a party, and I *am* a good time. But I don't drink and it was clear that was typically a big aspect/the main activity. My idea of a fun night out is a light dinner(so I don't have to worry about leftovers. Definitely snacking later at home) followed by something entertaining (my top choices would probably be a drag show or an arcade) and then dancing. I NEED dancing. Please God get me in the room with the queers and the neurodivergent DJ. I could skip all the other things as long as I can vibe on the dance floor with my loved ones.

We went out to dinner and to the gay bar. Both things I like!

And there was no dancing! One of them was adamant, "I don't dance." WHY. Why would you deny yourself the joy of movement. The embodiment of sound. Why would you declare it like it's something you can't wait to spit out of your mouth.

Why was there so much talk of past times getting fucked up (and presumably that was a positive experience for them). [This also probably wasnt discussed a TON, but it was multiple times and since I'm not into that personally it really stood out to me--like if you wanna tell me about the party that's great, but like can you tell me a funny story from it or something, instead of just how much your bar tab was?]

One of the people was abrasive and aggressive (in energy) in a way that did not make me feel safe or at ease.

Maybe it's because they're an established group and it was my first time with them. Maybe it's because I'm neurodivergent and introverted. Whatever it was, it just wasn't my scene. And that's ok. None of them were mean.

Someone we ran into that night is not really someone that my friend likes, but despite that, my friend still buys this person's art and still is considering doing a group activity with them before this person moves like an hour away. And internally I was like...why? Why would you spend time with people who send you mixed signals and act in an emotionally abusive manner???

[loyally-unfaithful]

—; it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas. (extra)

word count: 923

pairing: razor/gn!reader; razor/traveler

genre: fluff

summary:  you smiled. for humans, that was a good thing, he needed to remind himself. the corners of his lips quirked up in a clumsy grin as he tried to recreate your expression. his teeth bared in an odd grimace, razor gave up on the awkward attempt before you got any closer. human smiles aren’t dangerous, but he doesn’t want to scare you. you made them look easy. your smiles weren’t dangerous, they’re nice. he likes them.

a/n: mk so , while writing this fic i wrote a scene that ended up not flowing well with the main narrative so it got canned

felt it was as shame to bin it since i already worked on it so i decided to post it separately as an extra :3 it's still in draft form tho so kinda hybrid prose and headcanon lol(takes place between reader/traveler explaining what christmas is to razor and december 25)

heads-up

i write dialogues in what i will call the french/european system? anyway, i see that it's not the dialogue formatting that most english readers are accustomed to so i modified it slightly to be easier to understand basically dialogues will be within guillemets (« »), and words that are within the quotation marks but are italicised are actions and/or dialogue verbs.

hope that clears things out a bit and i hope you give me and my fic a chance :)

the next time you met up with razor, he was waiting for you by the edge of the woods. the wolf boy noticed that you had kept your promise as you excitedly trotted over to him, wicker basket in tow—though you were still a good distance away, he could scent out many unfamiliar aromas coming from the parcel.

« tell you what, you smiled. next time i go to the city, i’ll bring you something! »

you smiled. for humans, that was a good thing, he needed to remind himself. the corners of his lips quirked up in a clumsy grin as he tried to recreate your expression. his teeth bared in an odd grimace, razor gave up on the awkward attempt before you got any closer. human smiles aren’t dangerous, but he doesn’t want to scare you. you made them look easy. your smiles weren’t dangerous, they’re nice. he likes them.

the next time you smile was when you two ate lunch together, you introducing him to some human food and chuckling at his quirks and reactions. there was the traditional fare, some berries, some bread. he eyes the cheese tucked in a corner hungrily, while steering clear of the greens you brought with you. eating was spent in relative quiet, but it’s ok like this. he doesn’t mind having you rest on his side, leaning on him as you munch on a piece of ‘toast’ with… ah, you called it ‘cranberry… jam’? he visibly recoiled after having a taste. you laugh as he narrows his eyes and frowns at the offending condiment, as if it had personally wronged him. the sweet feels wrong; he doesn’t like how the sour makes his mouth dry. he licked his lips dryly, brows still furrowed. no more of that thank you, he thought. he’d much prefer meat. today, you brought glazed ham and… ‘mashed potatoes’. he likes meat. he likes potatoes. he much prefers this over the previous item. he snags them up. ‘cranberry’ notwithstanding, if this is what people ate during weihnachten, then it’s not so bad of a celebration.

curious at the colourful items you were snacking on, razor decided to have a small taste of the sweets that you brought, eyeing them for a tad bit too long before actually taking a bite. you took note of this and watched his reactions with amusement:

gingerbread cookie: he must’ve thought it had a weird taste, considering the confused face he made while chewing it;

peppermint cookie: he probably found that it smelt nice, seeing as he spent more time sniffing the damn thing rather than eat it. taste wise however, the reception was lukewarm;

snickerdoodle: you figured it must be the cinnamon that’s not doing it for him. it must’ve felt weird on his tongue, as he stuck it out, cringing, after chancing a taste. so far the most negative reaction out of all of them;

butter cookie: it had an inoffensive smell, an inoffensive taste, and received an inoffensive reaction. it seemed like it was the one he liked the most, actually;

you grin to yourself. it’s quite entertaining to go razor-watching. it’s cute. he’s cute. despite the length of time you had already known him, he still manages to be endearing.

moving on from the peculiar treats—he can’t say that he cares much for the taste, but he does like the crunch it makes when he bites into it. sounds nice. feels satisfying—he reached back into the now more-empty-than-stuffed basket for something (he was more accustomed to) to nibble on. he sees you faffing around in the corner of his eye, curiously watching you try your best to hide your excitement as you reached into a smaller satchel: « oh, and before i forget. i got you a present! you cooed. »

you happily, yet carefully, wrapped the fluffy cloth around his neck, which he sound found out to be a scarf. it was of the large and chunky variety. it was simple in terms of design (red, green, white stripes), but you doubted that fashion was a large fad in wolvendom.

you figured that, seeing as it was wintertime, the wolf boy would appreciate an extra piece of clothing, an extra layer of fabric, to keep him warm. you really don’t want him to fall ill. besides, you knew that dogs (and so by extension, wolves) liked fluffy things.

« do you like it? you queried. »

after being buried under the layers upon layers of scarf that was wrapped around him, razor manages to poke his face out to scan the fabric.

« bright colour. he responded bluntly. not good for hunt. »

fair enough. you’re willing to admit that the scarf, much like any other christmasy designs, was quite gaudy and loud.

« ah should’ve guessed so… you sheepishly scratch the back of your neck. well, umm… you don’t have to wear it…? maybe you can use it for bedding or something? »

« no. i like scarf. he said intensely, with conviction. warm is good. thank you. » as if to prove his point, he moves to readjust and fasten the fabric to his person.

you clapped your hands together as you beamed. so he likes it! you celebrate to yourself. as you were lost in your own jubilation, he felt himself reattempt to imitate your expression. your eyes returns to his face, your smile never faltering. razor wonders if they’ve actually gotten brighter. you’re happy. you didn’t balk at his attempt of a smile. he’s happy.

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[books-and-or-wine]

Fourth Post / On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

It is February, which means I made it through dry(ish) January! Which also means I’m back on my shit. This review is brought to you by:

As for the subject of this week’s review, the novel du jour is my February book club read. I always wanted to be in a book club, and after moving to Vancouver I was lucky enough to meet a friend who (a) wanted to start one, and (b) had enough friends who were interested in joining that it actually became a thing. Which was great, because I had literally 3 friends in the city at the time, so I wasn’t much help in the recruitment department... I mean, I still only have 3 friends, but now I also have ~*BoOk~cLuB*~. 

ON EARTH WE’RE BREIFLY GORGEOUS by OCEAN VUONG

**Spoilers ahead, read with caution**

The Premise:

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous traces the life of “Little Dog”, a Vietnamese immigrant living in Hartford, Connecticut. The story is told in the form of a letter to his mother and spans from his childhood up until early adulthood. While this story is a work of fiction, my understanding is that Ocean Vuong drew heavily on his own life and experiences in its telling. 

We read about the relationship between Little Dog and his mother: a single-mom who suffers from PTSD and fits of anger. She cannot read or write, nor can she speak English very well. She relies on Little Dog to help them navigate their new life in America, and while their relationship has problems, she ultimately wants what’s best for him.  

We read about the relationship between Little Dog and his grandmother: Lam suffers from schizophrenia, and often confuses the present day with the past. She recounts her life in Vietnam during the war, getting pregnant with an American soldier, and eventually escaping the war-torn country with her young family. Even though her mind is half-gone, she is always loving, supportive and kind. 

Finally, we read about the relationship between Little Dog and his lover: a red-neck, white boy who can’t or won’t accept the fact that he is gay. Trevor is tragically addicted to opiates after an accident in his teens led to an OxyContin prescription. The dynamic between Little Dog and Trevor is far from healthy, and borders on abusive at times. 

Through this all, we get to read about and experience Little Dog’s inner workings; his reactions to these people, these relationships, and the circumstances of his life. At its heart this is a coming-of-age story, over the course of which Little Dog matures and grows into his own person -- flawed, damaged, and briefly gorgeous. 

The Pros:

In reading this book, it is instantly apparent that Ocean Vuong comes from a poetry background. His writing style is highly poetic, ethereal, and is a “delight to the senses” (if I may be allowed to use one cliché phrase in this review). I do mean that in the literal sense of the phrase though -- the images, the sounds, the textures, the scents, the feelings... Vuong describes all of these elements to create a highly sensory experience for the reader. His hybrid style of poetic-prose is a big part of what makes this book so special.  

For example, a passage that grabbed me early on in the book reads:

“You once told me that the human eye is god’s loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.”

How beautiful is that!? It leaves such a sad, hollow feeling in me to think about -- which is not necessarily a feeling I’m looking for, but the fact that Vuong can write something so powerful that I am made to feel that way is a testament to his talent. 

Speaking of the feels, I was in tears on more than one occasion in this book. All of the characters in this book carry a sadness with them, and for good reasons. Everyone has a tragic past, and it seems like those pasts continue to haunt them presently. Through this darkness, though, there are moments of light and beauty and love. Little Dog seems to reflect on the difficulty of experiencing such highs and lows, at page 122:

“Do you remember the happiest day of your life? What about the saddest? Do you ever wonder if sadness and happiness can be combined, to make a deep purple feeling, not good, not bad, but remarkable simply because you didn’t have to live on one side or the other?”

This book was definitely not a deep purple sort of book, but it was remarkable all the same. I couldn’t help but become emotionally invested in the lives of these characters, and the words Vuong used to so vividly create them. 

The Cons:

I was initially doubtful this book would appeal to me, as it doesn’t fit neatly into the categories of books I am typically drawn to. While I am now glad to have read this book, one thing I did find challenging about it was the sheer number of issues it sought to address. Over the course of only 243 pages we read about:

1. war;

2. PTSD and other mental illnesses;

3. racism and the immigrant experience;

4. homophobia and the gay experience;

5. abuse;

6. addiction and the opioid crisis; and

7. death;

.. to name a few! You could have a whole book about just one of these topics, let alone all of them. 

I do think Vuong’s writing style enables the reader to consume these serious themes more easily than one otherwise would; because his prose is so beautiful and light (the words almost seeming to float off the page) it counterbalances the weightiness of these topics. But all the same, for my personal tastes, I think I would have enjoyed this book more if Vuong had focused on a few of these topics rather than overburdening the reader with so much to process. I appreciate that in real life some people do have tragedy upon tragedy befall them, and that their lives are filled with a heaviness that they didn’t get to choose. But this is supposedly a work of fiction, and the beauty of fiction is that, as the author, you do get to decide what happens to your characters. So maybe cut them some slack?

The Final Take-away:

This is not a book I would have chosen for myself to read, but that is one of the best things about being in a book club -- it exposes you to authors and stories you might not otherwise be. Despite my initial reservations, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous was an excellent read. “Gorgeous” is really the perfect word, as everything about Ocean Vuong’s story-telling was beautiful. Even the ugly bits. I don’t think this is a book for everyone -- it can be a bit abstract at times and deals with a lot of frankly depressing material. But if you have any sort of appreciation for the beauty of words and all the journeys they can take you on -- including those journeys into dark, difficult places and feelings -- then I’d give this book a try. 

[juliathinksaboutpop]

Week 4: Space, Pain, and Breathing in Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric (2014)

Hannah Klein’s online review on full-stop.net of Citizen: An American Lyric begins with a simple observation – ‘Citizen is a slim volume, heavier than it looks’ – which tempts a little more thought. The book isn’t just slim, it is also sparse. Claudia Rankine somewhat surprised me with the amount of space she under-utilized, or rather, as I came to realize, how much space, as a device itself, she has utilized. Surprising because the book isn’t just heavy, its pages are dense, like the material is ready to absorb a Whitman-esque overload of American zeitgeist. But there is no excess of words, description, or transcribed life. Rankine instead formats her text to illustrate the exasperatingly arbitrary but fundamentally social world of racial construct – produced by mediations that take place in the ether. The book largely consists of the weight, the significance, of space.

Space itself exists and functions in a multitude of ways. We can either be within it or outside it. There can be space over, under, in between. It can either overlap, border each other, or emerge mutually exclusive from one another. Modern life, with its variety of identities and belief systems, resembles a diagram I thought I’d left behind in A-Level Math:

An example Venn diagram of ‘Things that are bad’ found on Pinterest

And with the racial microagressions, disavowals, and identity mapping that Rankine details, you can’t help but imagine that this is the complexity into which we have demarcated human being. Trying to extract and resolve any one compartment strains the body and mind – it is ache-inducing, sigh-producing.

To live through the days sometimes you moan like deer. Sometimes you sigh. The world says stop that. Another sigh. Another stop that. Moaning elicits laughter, sighing upsets. (Citizen, p. 59)

The sigh is the pathway to breath; it allows breathing. That’s just self-preservation. No one fabricates that. You sit down, you sigh. You stand up, you sigh. The sighing is a worrying exhale of an ache. You wouldn’t call it an illness; still it is not the iteration of a free being. What else to liken yourself to but an animal, the ruminant kind? (Citizen, p.60)

The sigh itself is not the ‘illness’. It is not even a symptom exclusive to racial unfairness. But it is exactly because it is a universal expression of tension and a desire for liberation that the world says, ‘stop that.’ With a ‘moan’, mainly an oral expression, suffering is displaceable unto caricature, in this case, the ‘deer’, a ‘ruminant’ animal who, like those oppressed, have to regurgitate and chew, or rather, process meanings which they have been forced to consume. 

(The possibility that some people might relate to Bambi more than Kate Clark’s art piece, Little Girl, poses a question: Are we unwilling to face that the language we use in daily life, textual or visual, are perversely imbedded with discrimination? I mean, if you feel uneasy with the Clark’s hybrid work, is it because you feel like you’re looking in the mirror?)

VS.

A moan ‘fabricates’ a metaphor and hangs a veil that allows people to renounce culpability or responsibility – ‘that’s not my problem.’ A sigh, however, has less impact with our five senses and more with our most rudimental organs. We do not see or hear a sigh as much as we recognize it through the pulse of our own living, and there is recognition of it as a momentary fissure in stable, healthy breathing, one that exposes a wound – ‘an exhale of an ache’ – and a pain – whether it is anger, shame, guilt etc. – that can be found in everyone.

You both experience this cut, which she keeps insisting is a joke, a joke stuck in her throat, and like any other injury, you watch it rupture along its suddenly exposed suture. (Citizen, p. 42)

A simulation of ruptured breathing is Rankine’s main rhythmic device. It exists in the microcosm of syntax. When a therapist mistakes a (presumably colored) patient for a potential threat, ‘everything pauses’. The moment ruptures as her apology does: ‘I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.’ It is also present in the macrocosmic structure, wreathing around and mostly after the blocks of prose into which Rankine compartmentalizes most of the poem as well as by the many images she includes that not only creates pause, but transports us into a seemingly different plane of communication. However, maybe, the point is that there is never an independent realm of language or identity.  In terms of perspective, Rankine writes with a preference for a respiratory, inclusive ‘you’ rather than a sensory, possessive ‘I’ to instruct a paradox of experience that at once pulls readers in to participate as the poem’s subjective as well as push them out by highlighting any differences between the readers’ world and the storyworld. At its most successful, Citizen’s ‘you’ will be able to conjure the emotions of a transgression without familiarizing the facts of the event. Pit against the discrimination in the poem, regardless of facial and cultural signifiers, Citizen expects, or hopes, that there is a universal reaction. 

Once a sense of participation has been established, Rankine can complicate the perspective through revisiting popular racially-charged events. Hurricane Katrina, the Jena Six, Stop-and-Frisk and the high-profile murders of various African-Americans are all incidents which have received global attention and scrutiny. Everyone wants to talk about the problem, but fewer people want to stake a claim in the problem. In narrating these ‘situation videos’, Rankine does not allow the reader to cop out – at either or corner, you are situated somewhere in the script. During an unspecified Stop-and-Frisk occurrence, the moment of arrest is a tight compartment holding together a network of subjectivities:

I must have been speeding. No, you weren’t speeding. I wasn’t speeding? You didn’t do anything wrong. Then why are you pulling me over? Why am I pulled over? Put your hands where they can be seen. Put your hands in the air. Put your hands up. (Citizen, p. 106)

Who are you? i.e. ‘What ails you?’ Can ‘Put your hands up’ become ‘What up?’

To read this moment is to forgo the role of neutral outsider. In the moments before the rupture, within the prose-box, there is no objective space to escape into a buffer zone. You could be the victimized ‘I’, the policing voice, or somewhere more ambivalent, wishing that you could utter ‘You didn’t do anything wrong’ in a way that could change things. The possibilities aren’t limited to these. Any social, political or cultural difference could modify the type of pain but you are contained within the situation and forced to feel the rupture that was yours from the beginning.

Rupture. Recognition. Rankine spends most of Citizen provoking these two Rs, but does hint at a possibility of a third R – Repair:

Though a share of all remembering, a measure of all memory, is breath and to breathe you have to create a truce—

a truce with the patience of a stethoscope. (Citizen, p. 156)

So if life was really a Venn diagram, there would be a little shaded area where every single set of human intersected and according to Rankine, that would be ‘breath’, but for this intersection ‘to breathe’ or emerge, there must be a ‘truce with the patience of a stethoscope’. 

In pursuit of healing, as the medical metaphor implies, we must be open to identifying each other’s arrhythmias just as Citizen asks ‘What ails you, Dedmon?’ (Citizen, p. 95) of Deryl Dedmon, who beat and ran over James Craig Anderson in a racially-motivated hate crime. The poem does not presume a common cultural experience, but it does bring together victim, transgressor, and bystander in a common experience of pain. and of letting that pain breathe before the inverse happens, as in Dedmon’s case, ‘It [anger] let you go.’ (p. 95)

So, really, what Rankine is telling us is to forget the sets and subsets, to negate the 'What is' (Citizen, p. 152) already. Clear the space. Just listen for the pain.

[draconako]

Draco Reviews: Demonic Dora

Title: Demonic Dora

Author: Claire Chilton

Thoughts:

I originally read this as a sample available on Wattpad from Chilton herself, which for published authors is a very smart strategy - with enough warning. Get them enticed, end them on an exciting note, direct them to the actual published thing. Having liked what I saw of the sample, I decided to purchase the book in its entirety. 

I’m glad she ended the sample where she did, otherwise chances are I would not have bought this. Originally, I was set to rate this three stars on GoodReads, but ending details and the sour feelings I got as I stewed this book over made me drop it to a two.

TL;DR of Reasoning: 

Chilton seems unsure who her target audience is

Jokes are dragged for too long and some things are joked about that really shouldn’t be. 

There’s an extreme lack of logic to a lot of the events that happen

Lust treated like love between Dora and Kieron

Solid plotline slowly dissolves itself until it’s threadbare at the end. 

Demonic Dora makes itself out to be a Paranormal Comedy book - a genre which it nails dead-on maybe 40% of the time. It DOES have its funny moments, but those moments also get stretched WAY too far and repeated way too much for my liking. 

In addition, this book feels like it doesn’t know who its audience is. The writing style suggests a campy, funny paranormal story for middle schoolers, but there’s way too much language and mention of mature topics for it to really.. be that. As a result, the book comes out looking like a confused hybrid of mature and middle-grade fiction, a mix that should not be present. 

The story opens up with our “lovable” protagonist Dora in her father’s church, cleaning her nails with a combat knife and wanting to summon a demon. I will admit, the way this opens had me enamored with the story instantly. What’s not to love about a punkish girl with a rebellious streak? Sadly, my adoration, like the flames of Dora’s pyre, were extinguished pretty quickly.

Speaking of pyres. Let’s talk about that.

Within the first five chapters, it is established that Dora lives with religiously righteous parents who treat her like... well, Hellspawn. She gets forced into an exorcism. They keep her away from school to do this. When the exorcism fails, they decide to round up the ENTIRE TOWN and burn her at the stake.

I had a couple of problems with this. 

Chilton is presenting child abuse, let alone at the hands of religious parents, in a very “funny” manner. While Dora constantly reiterates “my parents are crazy/my parents are freaks” the entire situation isn’t treated with much weight at all. A lot of kids, especially LGBTQ kids, experience this sort of horror in real life, in real time. It felt kind of insensitive. 

I cannot understand the jump from EXORCISM to BURN YOUR DAUGHTER ALIVE. I honestly cannot. Let alone how they got the ENTIRE TOWN to take part. Let alone why, again, it was treated humorously. This is part of that 60% of the book that I mentioned isn’t funny at all.

But oh well. Chilton has made it very apparent in the past that she doesn’t care much for realism, so I sucked it up and moved on.

So Dora’s entire goal in the beginning of the story is to summon a demon, something she accomplishes [unknowingly] and that causes a bit of problems for her. Namely that whole burn-her-at-the-stake thing. Caught between dying and escaping with a demon boy who wants to get into her pants, Dora chooses the obvious choice of escaping. Then they go to Hell.

I like how Hell was, initially. There’s the highway with hitchhiking and there’s demons everywhere and honestly it’s super duper cool. I dig it. And then we meet Kieron’s parents and it’s not so bad. And then Kieron’s mom locks Dora in the basement of the house, or something, and I started feeling unsure again. There were a lot of mental illness jokes made that had me kind of uncomfortable. Also, putting Dora in the dungeons gives her access to all the Tortured Souls, who she somehow managed to tame despite being a human and having a soul and everyone in the house exclaiming how they’d never seen someone who could tame these souls so fast before. Streak of Sue-ness?

Speaking of characters, a lot of characters kind of fell into flat cardboard roles. Kieron’s and Dora’s parents are evil... for the sake of evil, it feels. Not only that, but several times it’s hinted at that Kieron’s father is hitting on/desires Dora. Kieron reads a lot like a stereotypical horny teenage boy - with horns! And [spoiler] angel wings. Even Dora herself. 

Like I mentioned, there’s a lot of jokes that fall flat or are overplayed for reasons I can’t quite discern. For example, the repeated use of poop - either as a weapon or as a joke. The first time, when a mass flock of birds shit on Dora’s pyre... that was okay. It was gross and it was also kind of funny. So fine. But then we have instances like an instance of dragon riding [the purpose of which I still don’t understand] and shitting on bad guys, or fighting a teacher in class and making him smear his own face with shit... that was... a bit much. Not to mention Pooey, the shit-colored demon? Does Dora have a scat fetish or...?

Then there was towards the end, when Kieron’s father showed her the specific realm of hell where bad book reviewers go. And at first it was kind of funny. As an author, I can get poking fun at negative reviews - even though I don’t understand what purpose this scene served. But then Chilton took it a step further than what was necessary and I found myself viscerally uncomfortable. There’s no need to be so bitter about bad reviews. It sounded a lot like the beginning of one of Anne Rice’s books, when Lestat takes a couple pages to gripe to the readers about how ill-received his last book was. It’s tacky. It’s pointless. It’s annoying.

Alas, nothing bothered me more than the ending... and there’s a lot that bothered me.

To start with, there’s a sort of... “jump” from when Dora and Kieron’s father go take a tour of the bad book reviewers to Judgement Day, and Dora’s demeanor takes a near complete 180. She’s lost all of her soul [it was mostly intact when we last looked at it], she’s lost all of her memories [how?]... There’s a lot of unanswered questions. So then there’s fighting. Cool? That’s done alright. 

And then there’s Kieron’s whole “save Dora!” plot which... I didn’t understand much. Honestly, the last 20% of the book had me very very confused in general. 

Anyway so Kieron and Dora end up fighting, because of course they do, and Kieron is determined to save Dora’s soul. Because of course. He also got ahold of her pieces of her soul. Don’t understand that entire arc still. Anyway so he plunges her soul back into her chest while they’re both fighting and then... dies.

And suddenly Dora remembers. And then she’s trying to bring him back. And it gets revealed that they love each other.

What?

This entire book, there’s been no sort of “love” between them. It’s been purely lust. Kieron comes to earth wanting to get into her pants, for god’s sake, and has been borderline creepy the entire time, regardless. There’s not been enough time [13 days] nor enough shown interaction between them to warrant this declaration of love.

And, finally, we get to the aftermath. Dora, as she’s wont to do, tells Kieron’s dad to get fucked. She’s holding a magic staff. This means her words cast a spell. “Fuck yourself, asshole!” causes a monster to appear behind Keiron’s father, who runs away in panic...and gets raped off-screen. And this is treated like a very humorous thing. 

Remember when I said a lot of the “jokes” were needless and fell flat? Well... that.

So then Dora and Kieron fail Judgement Day and get sent to earth and that’s how the story ends.

...Like I said. The prose is strong, but everything else about this story really isn’t.