The talented Julia Elliott alchemizes a mix of southern gothic horror and folktale, creating her own muggy, wild atmospheres in Hellions. In 11 stories, Elliott (The New and Improved Romie Futch; The Wilds) uses her gift for visceral description in various situations; for instance, an abbot "glistens like a broiled ham," a nun's "soul rejoices like a bird flitting from a dark hut, out into summer air," and in "Erl King," college roommates share "mutual longing" that "[fills] the room like a swarm of moths."
Settings include convents, swamps, the aforementioned college campus, cabins, family homes, and more. Elliott is careful never to compose an inert backdrop, and each is thrumming with a vitality that can threaten and comfort alike. In "The Mothers," two children from the mountain upend a group of women and their children at an art colony outside Asheville, N.C. Under their influence, the children, a collective who often appear in animal masks, embark on uncanny pursuits such as climbing to treetops and "yodeling intricate harmonies that stun the mothers." They ultimately blend nature and art by creating eerie pupae, ostensibly as an art project. In "Flying," told in second person, a man embarks on a strange sojourn to visit the forest witch, and complications abound. Animals proliferate this collection, both literally and figuratively: tree frogs bark, insects shriek, and mourning doves get their necks snapped, while people wheedle like dogs, stand like meerkats, and grin like wolves. These are adult fairy tales at their finest. --Nina Semczuk, writer, editor, and illustrator