Blackfoot storyteller Alexander Soop plunges us into a shocking well of imagination in his debut collection of short stories, Midnight Storm Moonless Sky. From hauntings on the Highway of Tears to fearful gatherings of ghosts and the sorrows of racism, Soop combines the social anxieties of Indigenous life with spellbinding flights and frights of speculative fiction. Through these enthralling stories of reality mixed with terror, readers get a wicked glimpse into the genre of Indigenous Horror – a combination of First Nations legends, dark fantasy, apocalyptic and paranormal enchantment, and monstrous secrets. In addition to his hungering to scare the wits out of readers, Alexander Soop also examines the overlooked matters affecting First Nations across the diverse world of Turtle Island. Midnight Storm Moonless Sky is Volume One in the Indigenous Horror series, a spinoff of the UpRoute Indigenous Spirit of Nature imprint. The stories in Midnight Storm are certainly entertaining but they can also be relentlessly dark, and not just in traditional, bump-in-the-night sense. ... Even the stories that take the wildest flights of the horrifying and supernatural often contain elements of modern Indigenous horrors. —The Calgary Herald Alex Soop, of the Blackfoot Nation meticulously voices each and every one of the stories in this collection from the First Nations Peoples’ perspective. While striving to entertain readers with his bloodcurdling tales, Alexander imaginatively implements the numerous issues that plague the First Nations people of North America, by way of subliminal and head-on messages. These specific matters include alcohol and drug abuse; systemic racism; missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls; foster care; Residential School aftereffects; and over-incarceration. He also deals with legends of Indigenous folklore, such as Wendigo, ghosts, and the afterlife. His urban home is Calgary and his ancestral home is the Kainai (Blood) Nation of southern Alberta. Excerpt from "An Unlikely Turn of Events" Court ordered or not, I don’t know why I still come to these stupid meetings. Maybe it’s my conscience wanting to do my mom’s bidding. I have been free, sober, and clean of alcohol for well over three years, and there’s no way in hell I’m going back to that lonely, despair-riddled life. A prison stint and losing my young marriage to divorce was more than enough to wake me up from the devastating effects of the devil’s nectar. Although every time I think of my ex taking the house, my car, and the dog—the damn dog—I want to slam back a bottle or two. But I don’t. Living three years without the stuff was what I really needed to realize that I didn’t need it in my life any more than I do coca-cola or chocolate cake. The sudden wave of polite clapping pulls my head from the clouds, and my mind rushes back to the world of this dimly lit, stale-smelling church basement. “Thank you, Riley,” says Trina, this AA assembly’s chairperson. “Now, would anyone else care to take the podium?” Sitting comfortably at the head of the room, she swivels in her steel chair and glances around at the small, seated crowd of recovering alcoholics, her eyes falling and staying put on me. I look away for a few seconds to admire a painted picture of a stoic-looking Jesus, then glance back to see Trina still gleaming at me, smiling. “How about you … Paul, was it?” she says. “Yeah,” I say, tonelessly. “My name is Paul.” “You’re still relatively new here? You’ve been here a few times, and I don’t believe we’ve heard you speak yet. Would you care to get up and tell us a little bit about yourself?” she asks. She sounds sweet and makes me think of my late aunty, Delores. Trina even shares my late aunt’s hairstyle. I’d much rather be that guy who just sits in without saying a peep, nodding in accordance whenever someone’s story hits a soft spot. “Sure,” I say, “why not.” The wave of dainty clapping resumes as I get off my stiff seat and move through the centre aisle of foldable steel chairs, the musty smell getting stronger as I approach the makeshift stage. A heavy plume of heat sprays down on me from a ceiling vent. Standing behind the rickety lectern, I survey the small crowd. A tall guy in the back wearing a grey Stetson stares lecherously at a pretty blonde with her back to him, her ponytail adding a sense of boredom. An old couple sit with one another, holding each other’s hands as they stare up at me like two cats watching a mouse stroll across the room. Trina sits on the very left of the front row. She stares at me as if to say go on, we’re here to listen. Finally I notice a tall, lanky man slumping in his chair, his long legs messily strewn on the floor in front of him. His attention switches back and forth from me to a beautiful woman sitting two chairs from him who is doing her level best to ignore him. I steer my eyes clear of this pretty woman in fear of losing my cool before I share my less-than-luminous histor