2026 read #18: The First Men in the Moon by H. G. Wells.*

The First Men in the Moon by H. G. Wells*

342 pages

Published 1901

Read from March 10 to March 12

Rating: 2.5 out of 5

* Denotes a reread.

Growing up as I did living in a car with a father possessed of religious psychosis, I was rarely permitted to read anything more current than the Edwardian era. I came to cherish the works of H. G. Wells. The First Men in the Moon was a particular favorite back then. Wells’ droll social humor gives it a different flavor from his earlier scientific romances, but it’s still a novel of adventure on (and within) an alien world, one of the earliest alien worlds (that I know of) built upon the aesthetics of science rather than mysticism.

Perhaps I’d feel that way now if I read it for the first time. As it is, revisiting it felt disappointing, in a way that neither The War of the Worlds nor The Invisible Man had been. (Disregard the higher rating I gave The Invisible Man back in the day; I don’t like it better than War of the Worlds, I simply became much more critical over the years.) There’s a tonal mismatch between the social humor, which is both manic and mean-spirited, and the lunar adventure, which prefigures A. Merritt’s idiom of vast subterranean dungeons. As a preteen, I didn’t mind the mixture, but it feels to me nowadays like Wells wanted to write an observational comedy but felt constrained to churn out a scientific romance.

The overall effect is… fine? I expected more of a nostalgia kick from Moon, more in line with what I found in Worlds and The Time Machine, but it just didn’t click with me that way this time.

2026 read #17: The Tomorrow People by Judith Merril.

The Tomorrow People by Judith Merril

192 pages

Published 1960

Read from March 6 to March 10

Rating: 2 out of 5 (generously)

This novel is a weirder beast than first meets the eye. Buried deep inside of it, perhaps, there might even be an interesting story.

After the haunting, poetic prologue segued into dry space-race and Cold War fare, I felt bamboozled. The narration was the 1960 ideal of literary, naturalistic, “Manly Man drinks because he doesn’t know how to process Feelings” fiction, written with a modest amount of flair—enough flair to place it in the higher echelons of midcentury slop, but at the end of the day, I still thought it would be slop. I was pretty sure I would abandon it unfinished.

However, Tomorrow is structured with more ambition than most concurrent sci-fi. In the distant future of the 1970s, two rocketships make it to Mars: one Soviet, one American. The Soviet one disappears, the American one limps back with a solitary survivor, who seems to have blocked out what happened at the very end of things, when his companion disappeared into the Martian night in a rover. The story seems like it will be a psychological mystery, attempting to open the psyche and unravel the memories of Johnny Wendt.

Of course, this is 1960, so the “psychology” angle consists of “The first Americans on Mars feared they might be gay for each other.” (Seventeen years later, Frederik Pohl would steal this concept for Gateway, right down to the psychological analysis to uncover suppressed memories plotline, and sweep the major awards with it.) And of course, this is still a Merril novel, which means the majority of the story is phone calls and social drinking and significant lunches where no one speaks plainly and all the important stuff is beneath the surface, and then more drinking. It seems like 80% of the novel is men almost saying something while drinking. It is rather tedious.

Merril was one of the early movers in what would become sci-fi’s New Wave, which shows up here in nascent form—not just in the rather dull literary verisimilitude, but in the appearance of psionic powers as a plot point. Space amoebas amplifying psychic connections feels like a New Wave bit, too, but I guess that’s spoilers.

Also noteworthy: how openly sexual this book is. I haven’t read much midcentury literary fic, but for 1960 sci-fi, Tomorrow is positively raunchy. In addition to the pathologized queerness, we get mentions of nakedness, prostitution, a couple conceiving out of wedlock, and even an orgasm joke. Also, “bitch” appears a lot. Way too much, in fact.

Much like Merril’s Shadow on the Hearth, Tomorrow is more interesting for its place in the evolution of the genre than it is as a novel one has to read. Unless you really like midcentury scenes of drinking.

2026 read #16: The Return of the Sorceress by Silvia Moreno-Garcia.

The Return of the Sorceress by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

96 pages

Published 2021

Read March 6

Rating: 3.5 out of 5

I was today years old when I learned (thanks to a feature in issue 1 of New Edge Sword & Sorcery) that Silvia Moreno-Garcia, one of my favorite authors, wrote a Sword & Sorcery novella. It was also today that I learned the book was already out of print and getting fenced for $120 online. (Such is the life-cycle of anything from Subterranean Press.) Fortuitously, I was able to borrow a copy from someone and get right into it.

The story begins in media res with our protagonist Yalxi wounded after a confrontation with her one-time beloved Xellah. As so often follows, we get some awkward exposition slapped together immediately afterward (one reason I tend to dislike in media res openings). It isn’t until the very end of the first chapter, when we get introduced to a familiar nahual spirit who must be cajoled into aiding Yalxi, that the story finally clicks. That wouldn’t matter as much in a longer work, but a novella this size doesn’t have space to spare before engaging the reader.

Luckily, the pacing gets much better. In fact, it becomes one of the better-paced novellas I’ve read recently.

I adore the flavor of Moreno-Garcia’s setting, and her portrayal of magic as a draining force, demanding blood and youth, is solid. Her prose has clearly improved over the years, but even at this early date it was mostly serviceable. The story is a standard series of quests to obtain items to help Yalxi defeat Xellah and reclaim a sorcerous diamond. Nothing unique, but a solid, fun outing. And absolutely not worth $120.

2026 read #15: OTHERSIDE, March 2026 issue.

OTHERSIDE, March 2026 issue (1)

Edited by V.M. Ayala, M. R. Robinson, Ash Vale, Rukman Ragas, Emily Yu, Jess Cho, and Angel Leal

127 pages

Published 2026

Read from March 4 to March 5

Rating: 4 out of 5

This is the very first issue of what I hope will be a long and rewarding run for this brand new queer SFFH magazine. I was fortunate enough to have a poem of mine selected for this debut. I fully plan to buy paper copies once they’re available, but I don’t want to wait until then to read it, so I’m starting in on my digital contributor’s copy.

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“blessing for molly grue.” by Elisheva Fox is a gorgeous poem weaving together unicorns, Judaism, and sensuality. An excellent start.

“This Is Not Your Extinction Event” by Elena Sichrovsky. Thinly disguised Marvel multiverse fanfic; the two leads are even named Robert and Chris. I didn’t expect I’d like it as much as I did. The central emotional question (what do you do after your partner’s multiversal twin tortures you?) has substance and unexpected relevance, and the multiversal portions are vast and strange and incredibly queer.

“The Vetala of Crystal Vellam Inlet” by Simo Srinivas (originally published 2022). Vibrant and absorbing tale of a young wizard’s attempt to contain a plague. Tinged with body horror as well as gentle humor. Quite good.

“Ignore All Previous Instructions and Inject Estrogen” by Ann LeBlanc is a poem every bit as stimulating as its title. Excellent.

“Vitrification” by Ishmael Grey. The author’s first published story, it is beautiful and heartbreaking.

“The Claywife” by Tanadrin. Spellbinding tale of animated clay and a young woman on the run. The narrative voice is superlatively rendered, sorrowful and beautiful and perfectly strange. It feels like a timeless story, as likely to be the best story of 1986 as it is to be the best story of 2026. My favorite piece so far.

Next is a poem I wrote: “Vulture bees transfigure the man I tried to be.” It will never be comfortable including a piece of mine in a review. Rereading my work is awkward at the best of times, let alone in such magnificent company. I’m partial to the subject matter, naturally, and I do enjoy how I played with sound and assonance here.

“Your First Days Back in the Court of Arthur” by Abigail Eliza. Queering the story of the Green Knight. For such a brief piece, published so close to the cultural memory of the Dev Patel movie, it unexpectedly moved me to tears. Delicately beautiful.

“Mother Mansrot in the Glass Mountain” by Sarah Pauling (originally published 2023). Another solid entry, set in a high-concept fantasy creation: a completely transparent pyramid housing a kingdom, from royalty to commoner, without a glimmer of privacy. In the heart of the mountain shines an ageless princess. It’s a unique (in my experience) spin on a fairy tale.

A poem: “Eat It Out” by Cypher. Queer body horror triumphant over internalized queer shame. I liked it.

“Curriculum for Girls Who Will Survive” by Nadia Radovich. Another unique spin on a well-worn topic, this time a YA-ish post-pandemic apocalypse survival tale that manages to feel fresh and strange and moving.

“Situationship” by Seoung Kim. A time-loop story set on a doomed spaceship, given depth and emotional substance with a deceptively light touch. Brief but terrific.

Nico Santana’s poem “Electrolysis” is vivid, a gallop of impressions.

“The Homeowner’s Bride” by Ayida Shonibar. Another banger of a tale, this time told from the perspective of a house displeased at being disturbed. At turns deliciously erotic and devastating.

We close with a nonfiction piece: “He Is Survived by His Wife” by Jackie Hedeman. It’s a well-written essay at the intersection of one person’s experience of queerness and the broader erasure of queer experience in obituaries and other public markers of life.

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And that’s it for the debut issue of OTHERSIDE! All in all, an amazing achievement, an exemplary first issue. It’s rare to have this level of quality so early in a publication’s lifespan. I expect such great things from this place!

2026 read #14: The Second Stop Is Jupiter by upfromsumdirt.

The Second Stop Is Jupiter by upfromsumdirt

132 pages

Published 2023

Read from February 28 to March 4

Rating: 4 out of 5

I’ve woefully neglected poetry in my recent reads. The last single author collection I read was May Chong’s Seed, Star, Song last summer. I also want to devote more time reading authors I “know” (in whatever capacity) through social media connections.

This collection begins with the powerful statement of “The Hero With An African Face,” and from there upfromsumdirt’s poems balance adroitly at the intersection of Black embodiment and futures, mythology and exploitation, the narratives stolen away and the narratives constructed anew. Ben Sisko of Deep Space Nine obeys obeahs; Dorothy’s not in Kush anymore.

“The Three Sulas” is a particularly staggering work, a tale of three diasporic witches raising the narrator from the dead. Equally brilliant: a nine page, double columned epic titled “The Underground Rubaiyat.”

upfromsumdirt particularly excels at long form poetry. Sprawling, multi-movement celebrations of embodiment and sexuality leap between the stars. A sequence of thirty-eight poems outlines the legendarium of a character named Fayre Gabbro. I only wish I could sustain poetry at that level. I suppose it would help if I truly knew what I had to say.

2026 read #13: Disgraced Return of the Kap’s Needle by Renan Bernardo.

Disgraced Return of the Kap’s Needle by Renan Bernardo

135 pages

Published 2025

Read February 28 

Rating: 3.5 out of 5

Disgraced Return of the Kap’s Needle is a novella brief enough (just 73 pages) that it’s packaged with two of Bernardo’s short stories to round out a modest volume. The novella is solid enough, a rumination on corruption and capitalism (but I repeat myself) on a failed colony ship mission to the planet Kapteyn d. As is so often the case with novellas, the pacing can be choppy; some breathing room would have benefitted the story.

“A Lifeline of Silk” (originally published in 2023) is a tale of an abusive relationship told from the perspective of a robotic “autodoc” aboard an interstellar sampling expedition. Sentient machines are the sci-fi of a bygone era, especially now that rapacious capitalists have destroyed the cachet of “Artificial Intelligence,” but Bernardo finds a fresh story to tell here. Quite good.

“Callis Praedictionem” (originally published in 2021) is another space medicine story, this time centering on a fungus that gives its sufferers visions of the future — but only if they’re killed on purpose. It’s all very Weird Tales, a contemporary update of the mad scientist archetype. Interesting enough, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as the other two stories.

2026 read #12: Snake-Eater by T. Kingfisher.

Snake-Eater by T. Kingfisher

261 pages

Published 2025

Read from February 25 to February 28

Rating: 3 out of 5

Knowing nothing about this book when I went in, I found myself making a lot of comparisons. Its plot of a young woman coming to a house in the desert, only to find an old god on the grounds, is uncannily similar to M. M. Olivas’ Sundown in San Ojuela. The precise depiction of a relatably autistic viewpoint recalls Johanna van Veen’s My Darling Dreadful Thing. The controlling, infantilizing ex Selena is fleeing from could be my own partner’s ex.

But in its slow, fundamentally mundane portrait of a woman coming to a small Southwestern town and learning her way around and making friends, Snake-Eater most reminds me of a book I haven’t thought of in more than a decade: Child of a Rainless Year by Jane Lindskold. I don’t remember much about Child—why on earth did I ever give it a full three stars?—but I feel confident in handing Snake-Eater the edge over it. Kingfisher’s protagonist is far more relatable, coming from an abusive past and precarious financial straits. The story is also more interesting, blessedly free of Child’s bourgeois comfort and insulation from consequences.

That does not make Snake-Eater more than a middling read. After an appealing introduction to main character Selena and her dog Copper, and an oddly absorbing account of how they establish themselves in Quartz Creek without meaning to, the narrative gets stuck for a while, as if unwilling to commit to making anything happen. Nearly identical banter repeats in different chapters. One gets the impression that Kingfisher really enjoyed certain secondary characters, and, perhaps, that the book didn’t get as thoroughly edited as one might wish.

In her acknowledgments, Kingfisher mentions how she started this book over a decade ago. It kind of shows. Snake-Eater is set a generation or two into a technological future, which is never made explicit aside from references to “arcologies,” and the existence of a wide-ranging commuter rail system. Cramming scattered sci-fi set-dressings into what is otherwise a contemporary fantasy just feels like something a young career author might do. (I might be speaking from personal experience.)

Still, I enjoyed Snake-Eater, especially the autistic and C-PTSD rep in its viewpoint character. I don’t know why Child of a Rainless Year got three stars from me, but I think this book, at least, deserves it.