The Refrigerator Monologues - Catherynne M. Valente

The Refrigerator Monologues is one part superhero deconstruction, one part empowerment of women, one part emotional catastrophe, and all parts acidly funny. I just want to get that out there now. It’s smart, and funny, and unflinching in its exploration of what it means to be, and what it feels like to be a woman, trapped in a world where men are defaulted to being better, and where superheroes are at the apex of casual privilege. Which may sound a bit overwrought - I can only assure you that it isn’t, that it’s a good time, that it offers up a haunting and sharp perspective on the way we treat one half of our society, but that it also builds up people you care about, tells and shows you their stories, and has a good time doing it. 

“Fridging” was coined as a way to describe the way the love interests of overwhelmongly male superheroes would typically be murdered in the first act of their stories, the deaths of wives and girlfriends being used to motivate the hero. They weren’t really seen as a person in themselves - instead they were just an object that we pinned “revenge” or “emotional catharsis” to. Nobody wanted to talk about the women themselves, how they ended up in the fridge, and about the fact they were just as interesting and worthwhile as the superheroes they were connected to. 

This book sets out to change that; it’s centred on a small club of the relatively recently deceased, who meet and drink coffee in the afterworld, learning each other’s stories, and supporting each other. It’s surprisingly wholesome, though the members range from the dimensionally challenged, through super-scientists to, well, actual villains. But they’re all here now because their lives were seen as part of someone else's story. And credit to the author, she brings the voices of these people back to the fore. Each has a chapter of their own, laying out the story of their life, their death, how they got there. From the Atlantean Princess to the sometime demigod, and back around to the once-photographer, they’re a diverse bunch. And the stories reflect this, as do the voices they use to tell the, That said, there’s a unifying theme in the confidence each story provides, the way it’s paced to allow it to be spoken aloud, and in the sense that these voices are powerful, and have been marginalised by something flashier but ultimately less interesting. 

Honestly, it’s hard to talk about the stories in this book without spoiling them. So I’ll just say this: the moments in these pages did, on occasion, actually make me laugh out loud. They did, on occasion, raise an eyebrow or a smile. Sometimes they carried a real emotional punch, something that made me need to put the book down for a few minutes, and think it through. They were real, fierce, angry, thoughtful, funny, deeply true stories. Stories that speak to the way superhero stories treat women, and also about the way we treat superhero stories, and about the kind of stories we want to tell, the kind of heroes we want to talk about. This is a book that gets all that in but also tells genuine, interesting, emotionally human stories, stories that make sense, or at least try to make sense of the world we’re in and the stories we tell ourselves.

Reading this is a good time, and it was a fast, snappy read, but also a thoughtful, and sometimes an emotional one. I’d say if you enjoy comics, or superhero stories, or women pushing back on their marginalisation, or, you know, all three, then this is a great book for you. It certainly was for me. 

Children of Chicago - Cynthia Pelayo

Children of Chicago is a horror-mystery hybrid from Cynthia Pelayo, and is, by turns, intriguing, eerie, and chilling in equal measure. If you think you’d enjoy a blend of police procedural and slow-burning horror, then you’ll probably have a good time with this one. 

The book follows Lauren Medina, a young homicide detective, burdened with past trauma. Medina struggles with the mysterious murder of her sister when they were both children, and the gaps in her memory that surround it. She’s built a life around those gaps, and is driven to try and bring justice to other victims, to make the unknown more visible. Medina is closed in on herself, pushing people away because she thinks they’re going to be hurt if they stick too close to her. And there’s always the possibility that she may be right about that. Pelayo draws her protagonist with a fine brush, letting us see the wounds and scars that have closed her up, the marriage on the edge, or past the edge, of failure. The desire to prevent harm, and the obsession it brings that may be past the border of healthy. Medina is a woman on the brink of crisis, following ghosts,snatching victories where she can while fuelled by good coffee and bad food. 

The story also explores her relationships, both old and new. There’s the aforementioned marriage, but also a look into the family that shaped her even as it fractured. The way her father, also a police officer, was drawn into a morass of cases, never able to stop working, something Medina mirrors - though her memories of him are typically warm and understanding. THe way her maternal figures were absent or less than approving. It shapes her, this dynamic - and you see that in her interactions. You see it in the way she eyes her partner with suspicion, and in the way that working with her father’s old partner as a mentor lets her relax herself, just a little. Pelayo has wound her protagonist almost as tight as she can go, and the question is perhaps where she’ll put all that energy when she unravels. 

There’s other characters of course, other views. I won’t spoil it, but I will say that there’s some portrayals here of both innocents and killers that ring true. Some are delightfully creepy, each turn of the page giving us the mundane, obscurely familiar roots of dissatisfaction that lead to murder. You can read these pages and feel the sad, petty reality of killers - even as the supernatural element spreads through the story like ripples in a pond. There’s something behind the killers, behind the murders, a force of nature, or something else, but it slithers and strides behind a façade of normality. There’s an honesty to the terror, a rawness to it, that feels human in the same way that the grubby details of the crimes, the motives, do too. 

Speaking of facades of normality: This is very much a book set in Chicago. If the name didn’t give it away, the lavish descriptions and interjections on the history and folklore of the city certainly will. I thought they were great, honestly, as someone who doesn’t know much about the city; they gave it a depth, a grace and shadow that I wouldn’t have felt otherwise. That said, if you’re not here for a love letter to the Windy City, you might find the digressions less helpful. Personally, I enjoyed them - they made the city feel alive, like another character rather than a stage to be played upon. And the history of Chicago, even that small portion explored here, is a dark one on occasion. 

There’s some nice twists and turns here, and the story takes some unexpected pivots as it gets where it’s going, exploring the Pied Piper myth in a more modern setting, exploring a deal where the price is the lives of children, drawn into the depths and never seen again. This is a modern fairy tale, but one explicitly in the mode of Grimm rather than Disney - a fairly tale where rewards are uncertain, and costs can be both high and gruesome. 

Is it a good story? In short: hell yes. If you find the nights drawing in a bit, and you want to feel that chill down your spine, then this is the book for you.