Scorch Atlas bakes the world in this coating of horror and filth.
Scorch Atlas blackens the corners of language, making everything crisp and bitter.
Scorch Atlas blisters page after page of tight story.
Scorch Atlas broils human flesh in a pan of THANK GOD fiction.
Scorch Atlas chars a little something in side the reader that forgot destruction is inevitable.
Scorch Atlas cooks up a tasty dose of image-based fiction.
Scorch Atlas melts my desire to write fiction. I COULD NEVER DO THAT.
Scorch Atlas parches the saliva within our mouths, us readers unable to close them, unable to take a deep breath.
Scorch Atlas roasts humanity and doesn't care.
Scorch Atlas scalds the eyes, like AM I REALLY READING THIS?
Scorch Atlas sears language tightly to the inner thigh of fiction writing.
Scorch Atlas seethes a realness that it shouldn't be able to.
Scorch Atlas shrivels the souls of its characters and simmers the souls of its readers.
Scorch Atlas singes its corners its cover, it seems, the beautiful damn artifact, one of the most attractive books I've ever held.
Scorch Atlas stews up a big batch of BOOYEAH.
Scorch Atlas swelters off the page, my hands are sweaty, thank you.
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