​I've been a genre fan for a very long time, and I'm actively sad to see the direction in which it is heading, as evidenced by books like these.
Where do I even begin ...
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Well, it is described as gruesome, and gruesome it is. In the most disgustingly visceral way imaginable.  If pages upon pages of graphic descriptions of vomiting and excreting are your thing, you're in for a real treat. The problem seems to be that the author confuses disturbing the audience with disgusting them. The former takes literary skill and psychological manipulation and such, the latter ... not so much. 
For another thing - and this may be controversial and therefore scary in its own right to discuss - this is the kind of book that leans heavily into the race aspect without really saying anything profound about it.  Specifically, it is the kind of book where someone's race is the first thing you learn about them - and is then used as a crutch to shore up the notable absence of character development.

Erewhon, the press behind this, specializes in publishing marginalized/minority voices and stories - a great mission and many kudos to them. I can only hope their other books use it in a more meaningful and thoughtful way.
But the main thing here, whatever race the characters may be, they are just not interesting. Maybe because they so closely align to their terrible generation, maybe by design. But the 30-year-olds in this book act about 21 - and not a particularly mature 21 either.
It's basically the cast of Friends - if Friends was ethnically, but curiously not in any other way, diverse. The group dynamics are incestuously close, mostly focused on one tedious triangle around the protagonist. Why is anybody's guess, because he's a loser (and not a charming one, either) through and through, even with their admittedly low-set bar. And yet, this tedious triangle takes up an inordinate amount of page time, because, once again, there's nothing else of interest to rely on.
Mind you, there is a folk horror-eque plot aspect that could've been quite interesting, if it didn't get buried under all the whining and navel-gazing and will-they-or-won't-they garbage.

So yes, it's easy to see the book didn't sing for me. Which is lamentable, because I think this writer can actually write, but nothing about his stylistic and narrative priorities worked for me, and I hated his characters. 
Maybe this book will sing for you. Or screech. But reading/reviewing is a subjective business, and for me, it was time wasted. Thanks Netgalley.

Everyone is talking about AI these days. And who better to do so than a writer and a computer scientist?
What I enjoyed most about Mason's Fabrications is how he avoided demonizing the technology. In fact, if anything, he humanized it. Without falling into cliches and offering easy scenarios, these stories speak of utterly plausible futures where one's existence may be augmented, assisted, etc. by the presence of AI.
The other good thing about this collection is that Mason's clever enough to understand to use AI as a mere foil to talk about humanity and its numerous follies.
I did find the stories uneven, with at least a couple of them (and of course they were some of the longest ones) losing my interest almost completely. But at its best, the book was really good, so my rating splits the difference.
Literary, eloquent, thought-provoking ... this is literature, people. So, if you like that sort of thing, go for it.

Jennings seems to be popping out Villanelle adventures like nobody's business. They're not improving; if anything, the quality is steadily waning, in writing and especially in plotting. The plots are rather uninspired, and the character development has more or less stalled, relying on unbecoming melodramatics and repetition.
This is basically a pretty sizzling trilogy that's been stretched into a neverending series. It runs almost solely on fumes of the original greatness and the existing fan base, most of whom are likely still mad about the ending of the BBC adaptation.
So why am I rounding it up to four stars? Well, because I suppose I am the target audience, who loved the show and the original three books, and, more importantly, loved the characters enough to follow them on further adventures.
These books are snack food, empty calories, but sometimes it's okay to indulge in those. Yes, I wish they were better, the way they used to be, but I'll enjoy them for what they are now.
Underwhelming but amusing, and a quick read.

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I've never heard of Melissa Albert. What attracted me to this novel was the plot (I love books about books) and the cover (I admit it, I judge books by their covers - it is remarkably effective). And sure enough, it was right on the money in this case, hiding a story as dreamy and beautiful as the cover art.

Edith Sharpe has written the best-selling, universally beloved Ninth City book series for children. It remains unfinished. But it is her own children that take the center-stage of this story, especially Guin, Guinevere, the narrator. Now an adult and long-estranged from her older brother with whom she was once inseparable, she has become the keeper of her mother's legacy. When the brother finally comes back into the picture, he does so with yet another immersive art installation show, the countdown to which serves as a framework for this novel.

Slowly, layer by layer, Melissa Albert unpeels the Sharpe family onion in all its tragic f*cked-upness, and it's truly impressive on all accounts. The thing Tolstoy once said about unhappy families definitely holds true here.
Weaving in different timelines, art show descriptions, and stunningly inventive glimpses of the Ninth City, the story unravels leisurely but mesmerizingly, making for a fully immersive read.
What struck me as the most unique element is the revelations in the end that basically change the entire genre of the novel. That was bold. And fun!

Afterward, I looked up Melissa Albert to find that she has authored a popular series of children's books. Well, that explains a lot. And they do say "write what you know." Though one can only hope Edith Sharpe is but a twisted negative imagine of her creator.
Well, to Albert's credit, she writes very well for adults. A bit metaphor-heavy perhaps, but such lovely metaphors. Such lovely imagery, in general.

Overall, a wonderfully imaginative, beautifully written, engaging read. Recommended. Thanks Netgalley.

​Nat Cassidy is one of the recent genre darlings, and all I've read of his work until this book was the novella, Rest Stop, included in this collection. To be fair, I wasn't that impressed by Rest Stop, but I was curious to see what else the author can do. 
A lot, apparently. Judging by this book.

Cassidy knows places, dark places where nightmares dwell and shadows come alive. And he has the imagination and the talent to make visiting those places a genuinely unsettling experience.
Junior Jubilee, for one, disturbed me viscerally on a level few fictional stories do.

In tale after tale, Cassidy detours into terrifying territories. But the best thing about his writing for me is that, although he uses guts and gore and some gimmicks, he doesn't rely on them. he's good enough - and inventive enough - or a writer to focus on original storytelling first and foremost. And so, foo me, it was his wonderfully twisted imagination that made this collection a standout. That, and strikingly realistic character interactions.

Stylistically, he's the closest to Clay Chapman - equally hip, but without using the same choppy, stream of consciousness trick over and over.  The last story didn't quite fit but does show off Cassidy's theatrical origins. Overall, though, a really solid read for genre fans. It's nice to see when a writer actually lives up to his praise and is certainly an excellent introduction to Cassidy's work. 
Recommended.
Thanks Netgalley.

Finally, finally, I got to read this book I've heard so much about. Well, most of it was about the author, who is also a poet, literary critic, and editor. But mostly recognized as an author of acclaimed and Booker-nominated fiction.

Sure enough, as I read this book, I kept thinking about how hyper stylized it is, in exactly the way that Booker (and other literary awards) salivate over. Except that in Ravn's case, it's also very readable.  
Based on the real-life history of Scandinavian witch trials, this book reads a lot like a long prose poem, but kind of in a good way. Or rather, I should say that I wouldn't necessarily want to read more than 175 pages of it, but at that length, it works very well without overstaying its welcome.
And it does convey an interesting story, despite its stylistic diversions.
Plus, every so often there is a turn of (a usually paragraph-long) sentence that simply stuns with its beauty.

Ravn's writing is very much like avantgarde music or art - not for everyone, but those who appreciate it, will appreciate it a lot. For its daring and originality alone, it gets high marks from me.  But oh, this child does wax poetic!