B.R. Yeager

She asks for a light. You reach in your pocket and dig out your Bic, strike the flint, and touch the flame to her cigarette. She inhales. The tip roils cinder. A line of flame draws down the paper, crossing the band, down the filter. It touches her lips and her entire face is a blaze. Engulfing, disappearing her hair, climbing down her throat, down her shoulders and arms and chest and belly, down her pants to her shoes. Washed in pumpkin light. She waves her arms, spinning in circles and howling. You run. Collected fiction.

Four teens in a New Hampshire mill town abuse a bizarre hallucinogen called WHORL in order to cope with a devastating suicide epidemic.

Amygdalatropolis is a work of brilliant neurorealism in which the city is a Computer, a libidinal pornutopia voided of all bedeutung other than the residual, electronic prickling of sexual fear and auto-autistic aggression where software and synapse flicker in an endless algorithmic loop. Norburt Wiener's apocalyptic steersman leads directly here: a psychopathological cyberutopia heading straight into the lake of fire. Scott Wilson, author of Great Satan's rage: American negativity and rap/metal in the age of supercapitalism Yeager's haphephobic protagonist /1404er/ has got over reality, family or the social and moved on - to a somewhat more tenable amnion of snuff porn, clickbait and casual online scapegoating. Amygdalatropolis inhabits our post-truth heterotopia like some virulent new literary life form, perfectly tooled for the death of worlds. David Roden, author of Posthuman Life: Philosophy at the Edge of the Human