Shingai Njeri Kagunda: Hello Rebecca, it is such a delight to be engaging with you and your creative process in this way. I have had the privilege of reading your upcoming collection of short stories, River of Bones and Other Stories, and I would love to know what putting together this collection of short stories has shifted inside of you?

Rebecca Roanhorse: I don’t know that it’s shifting anything inside me, but it definitely feels like the end of a particular era in my writing life. It’s been gratifying to be able to look back at the last almost decade and see my short fiction collected in one place. Some of these stories only exist in e-books or on websites, so it’s cool to seem them in print.

SNK: “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience^TM” may be one of your most well-known shorter works, appearing as the first story in this collection. That said, it is incredible to see how the tone of the collection reads as so wide-ranging. At what point in the process of writing a story do you realize you have decided on a voice or tone that feels right for that particular story?

RR: Usually from the beginning. Short stories tend to come to me fully formed, unlike novels which are a process and often require extensive revision. Shorts are really my chance to explore an idea or a voice or even an event in the popular consciousness without a lot of overhead and commitment. I usually know who and what they are from the beginning.

SNK: In a previous Clarkesworld Magazine interview with Arley Sorg you spoke to character being one of the most important elements of story for you. Is there an aha moment when you realize you have written a well-rounded complex character? Does that aha moment feel different when moving between short stories and novels?

RR: In novels, characters need depth and a relevant arc—they need to grow and fail and arrive somewhere different from where they began. Shorts, for me, need that much less. They need to exist in their moment and function to tell the story I’m trying to tell. I’m always concerned with character, but not as concerned in shorts.

SNK: Vengeance as an idea comes up in such interesting ways throughout this collection, whether it be about avenging settler colonial theft of life, or taking life in order to satisfy the one you love (Shout out to the deer woman). In our present reality, there is often a narrative that names the people who are resisting apathy, the aggressors or the disturbers of peace; how do you navigate writing violence from the perspective of the oppressed?

RR: I don’t really write violence for spectacle, although I’m also not wholly against it. I am a big fan of the John Wick franchise and I’ve written a Predator comic. But I do try to ground my violence in purpose, and I try to be very aware of who commits the violence and against whom violence is committed. It is another element of story craft that is important to balance. It’s also worthwhile to note that not all violence is physical—there is emotional and social violence that can be just as devastating and effective.

SNK: In that vein, you write Black and Native characters who are morally complex. You have talked in the past about your work being interested in complicating the moral binary of good and bad. How do you think your background in religious studies and theology seep into this particular curiosity?

RR: Ha! What an interesting question. I am sure my studies have had an impact in a myriad of ways, but I don’t think I can pinpoint a particular influence. I also make room in fiction for things I wouldn’t tolerate in real life. Perhaps ironically, good and evil feel much clearer cut in real life than I like in my fiction. I think a lot of my desire to write morally complex Black and Native characters stems from my desire to push back against stereotypes like the Magical Negro and the Nobel Savage. I want my characters to span the gamut of human experience and emotion, something often denied them. If that makes them morally gray, so be it.

SNK: In the last Psychopomp interview you did (welcome back) with my co-editor Arley, you phrased very beautifully how a book’s publication, “can only capture a moment in time for the author—who they were and what concerned them when they wrote it—and then we move on to what’s next.” What are the different iterations of yourself you see strewn across the timeline of these short stories and their publications?

RR: I think characters who struggle with identity and belonging are hallmarks of my early work. The theme reflects my own struggles and the larger zeitgeist of an era of identity politics. As I write my ninth novel, I am much less concerned with identity for example, at least in the way it defines us as marginalized. Now, we’re in an era of growing fascism and institutional collapse, and, not unrelated, I have an 18-year-old heading out into our messy, complex, and dangerous world. I also need to figure out what’s next for me, now that my day-to-day role as a mother is receding. I’m simply not the same person I was a decade ago, and my writing will reflect that.

SNK: You seamlessly transition between lengths and subgenres in your writing. What practices ground your process when you are moving between stories that have vastly different structural arenas?

RR: I don’t know about seamlessly. There are some lengths I really struggle at, although short story tends to come fairly easily. I don’t outline my short stories, but I do outline anything over 20k. So writing each of those separate forms is a very different process. With short stories I try not to overthink the work, whereas with novellas and novels, I tend to obsess over the structure and characters and plot, probably to a fault. What keeps me grounded in both is knowing what I am trying to say and doing my best to get there.

SNK: Originally this interview was going to be published in our Fantasy issue 100 that centered around themes of migration and transition. What are some of the strengths of writing about, to, and through liminal spaces?

RR: I am a creature of liminal spaces. This is my natural environment. I am sure there are both strengths and weaknesses to abiding here, but I also think this is where artists best create—in the ambiguity and flux of change and thresholds. Artists should never be too sure of themselves or who they are lest it hinders their ability to metamorphose.

SNK: Writing from the margins, I think, makes us more wary of the consequences of getting ourselves wrong. One of the things I love about your work is that you do not shy away from the experiment, and speculative fiction feels like the perfect arena for experimentation. As Octavia Butler said, “there are no walls.” That said, you craft your characters with so much care that their wounds, desires, loves and hatreds feel easily accessible to the readers. How do you write through/against the expectations that come up around any burden of representation tied to queerness, and cultural identity?

RR: I think you kind of have to say “fuck it” and write what you want to write. The human experience is messy and unsure and, in the end, lethal. Writing scared is no way to write. Writing worried about what other people think is no way to write. If that’s what consumes you, maybe don’t bother writing. The problem arises when one person is held up as an authority of a particular experience, and sometimes, most times, being designated as such is out of the author’s hands. It is something done to them, not something they have done. So it is inherently flawed, and we all know those who lift you up are quick to tear you down. So don’t worry about it. Be true to yourself and your experiences, write with integrity and do your best. Your function as an artist is not to placate or even represent, necessarily. Your role is to create, and creation requires transgression.

SNK: The year has just begun, but I am curious; what does writing, and publishing feel like for you at the start of 2026?

RR: Fraught. Difficult. Necessary. We are definitely in a time of change and pushback against marginalized authors. Many young writers won’t make it out of the starting gate as publishing pulls away from championing and marketing them. It’s a travesty. But it’s also a reminder that being a writer and getting published are two different things. Write because it feeds your soul, write because your stories matter. Commercial and professional success is the icing on the cake but cannot be the raison d’etre. Capitalism will always let you down.

SNK: What possibilities do you think dark fantasy, horror, and speculative fiction at large offer when faced with large scale systemic and societal inequities?

RR: What do they offer to the reader? Validation that your horrors are not imagined, escape from the confines of conformity, hope that stories can save you, or at least offer a respite. Plus, genre is fun.

SNK: My final question comes with so much gratitude for what you make possible by sharing your imagination with us. Thank you, Rebecca. What would you like readers who are coming into River of Bones to carry with them as they read the collection?

RR: I think the theme of the collection, as I say in the Introduction, is that “identity is fluid, desire kills, and survival makes one a monster.” Do with that what you will. These stories were mine emotionally, but they are in your hands now, Reader. Enjoy!

Rebecca Roanhorse is a New York Times bestselling and Nebula, Hugo, and Locus Award-winning speculative fiction writer. Her short story collection, River of Bones and Other Stories is out March 6, 2026, and her novel set in the Star Wars Andor universe, Edge of the Abyss, is out September 2026. She lives in Northern New Mexico with her husband, daughter, and pup. She drinks a lot of black coffee. Find more on Instagram at @RebeccaRoanhorse and on BlueSky at @rebeccaroanhorse.bsky.social

Set primarily during World War I and told via a long lost diary that is found by chance, Hound follows Private Barrow, a young soldier in Britain’s royal army, who is thrown to the wolves when he is sent to the “gas quarter,” a stretch of land that has been devastated by chemical warfare. Once there, Barrow is introduced to a group of men who call themselves “The Hounds.” The name stems from the gas masks that they wear—terrifying in and of themselves—but Barrow swiftly learns that there’s something much more sinister than their appearance afoot. What begins as an attempt at indoctrination into their ranks soon becomes a blood-soaked evening of terror as Barrow faces the truth. 

I was lucky enough to chat with Sam and Sam about this comic, what inspired them, and what some of their favorite horror works are. 

Read on to find out more. 

I like to start interviews by pulling back the curtain a bit so that we can learn a little more about you. What does a day in the life of a comic creator look like? 

SAM R: Oh man—so I work a full time job and my wife and I have a three year old son. Most of my free time is spent with them. Once everyone goes to bed, however, that’s usually comic time. By then I had probably been mulling over an idea for hours at work and am pretty ready to get it down on the page. I keep an open note on my phone where I can jot down little ideas I have during the day. I pray that the note never gets opened by someone out of context. I’d probably end up on a watch list. 

SAM F: I wake up at about 6:03 AM with a cat screaming in my ear for food (his auto feeder went off at 6), then get ready for work where I commute in silence, then I clock in, have a quick cry in the bathroom, stare at empty spreadsheets for about 7 hours, then drive back home in silence. Somewhere in all of that I also jot down ideas in a note on my phone. 

How did you two come to work together?

SAM R: Sam F and I met years ago playing in bands around Maryland and West Virginia. I had been writing comics for a while when Sam reached out about wanting to give it a shot. We talked about ideas a lot and ended up landing on a few we wanted to try together—one of them being Hound!

SAM F: Like Sam R said, we both met playing shows together in our respective bands. I knew I wanted to jump into comics and Sam had just released his first. I abused his inbox for probably a year straight asking questions and eventually started talking ideas, we pitched a handful and eventually made our way to Hound. 

Is this your first time working on a project with a co-author? What is that process like? 

SAM R: For me, no—co-writing is the only way I’ve written so far. My first venture into comics was writing a western series with one of my best friends Adam Meadors who I was also in a band with. Then after that, I started writing with my other longer-term partner Ben Roberts (we’ve done a few things together so far—check out Children of the Grave from Scout and Rock & Roll Hell from Sumerian.) Personally, I really view the creation of anything as a collaborative effort—I think that stems from our background in music. We treat writing comics pretty similarly. Rather than coming together saying “I have this whole song written” we really just pitch “riffs” to each other—little ideas for story beats, a character idea we like, even just a title and build from there. I’m working on a few things as a solo writer for the first time right now and it’s pretty fun, but I much prefer bouncing ideas off of my friends to create something together. 

SAM F: I started scripting comics with another friend of mine so from the jump I was working with a collaborator. My first published book, Basic Instinct from Sumerian Comics, was a written solo and it’s absolutely two different experiences. Writing in tandem I think offers a clearer runway to flesh out ideas and allow for baton passes. I struggle often with latching onto an idea and falling in love with it and trying to place it into a story where it doesn’t work. Sam is so great at the mechanics of a story and being able to determine flow or why an idea doesn’t work.

Similarly, what was pitching the idea for Hound to your publisher, Mad Cave, like?

SAM F: First, I just want to say Mad Cave has been incredible. Personally, it’s been such a 180 from other publishers I’ve worked with and I’m so honored to have anything I’ve worked on be in their already stellar catalog. 

With Hound, we had been talking with them about another idea that we ended up going a different direction with. They left the door open for us to send projects their way and were extremely accommodating. We initially pitched Hound as a series and Mad Cave suggested a graphic novel instead which was 100% the right call. 

SAM R: I’ll echo Sam F on this one—every step of the process for creating Hound was an absolutely incredible experience, even just pitching. We really felt like everyone believed in the book and wanted to bring it to life in its fullest potential. It’s far and away the best experience I’ve had in comics to date. Mad Cave forever. 

Hound is a horror comic, so I’d love to know what some of your favorite horror content (books, movies, video games, etc.) is. Was there anything in particular you drew inspiration from for this book? 

SAM F: This is like when someone asks you what music you like and you forget everything you’ve ever listened to. For some reason at this moment I want to shout out a movie called Possum. That movie rules.

I don’t know if there was any specific inspiration for Hound to be honest. There were a lot of personal things revolving around death that I wanted to touch on mostly. 

SAM R: For me, my favorite writer in comics is Garth Ennis. I’d like to think I’ve read the majority of his work, and because of it I’ve always wanted to take a crack at a war story of my own. I don’t think we set out to tell a horror story with this, I just think that the idea of war (World War I especially) is intrinsically horrifying, and we really wanted to lean into that and take it to an extreme. The horror aspect of this book sort of took on its own form. The series of events in the story really feel like a natural progression to me, regardless of how unnatural the circumstances are. 

Hound is set during the course of WWI. I’m someone who is equally fascinated and horrified by this period of time, and I’m wondering what drew you to it as well. 

SAM F: I think WWI is definitely an underutilized setting for a lot of fiction given how horrifying it all was.

SAM R: The idea for the story was all built up from this foundation we had laid around how terrifying almost every aspect of that war was—trench warfare and mustard gas disfigurement were the big two that influenced this idea the most. The mechanisms in which the war was fought almost sound tailor-made for a story like this—they’re so horrific they already seem like they would be fictional. The leap we took to get from reality to fiction was not that large, which felt like a really cool place to tell this story in. 

Was there any specific media set during WWI or about WWI that you turned to for research? Did you take inspiration from any real life accounts from the frontlines? 

SAM R: No real life accounts. Not consciously, anyway. I really hope no one experienced anything like this…

It’s funny you bring that up though—I did start to read a journal entry from a soldier while researching the time period in order to figure out the style in which these soldiers wrote in (a lot of the text in this book being journal entries) and I got so into what he was saying that I had to stop. For one, it was so profoundly horrific and upsetting that I couldn’t really look away, and two—I didn’t want to pull too much from anyone’s actual trauma and sort of appropriate it for my comic book. I will say though, if any readers enjoy this book and feel inclined to further look into actual journal recounts of the war, I would say do it. You wouldn’t believe how horrifying the real thing was. 

SAM F: When I was 18, I lived in Hagerstown, Maryland. I feel like that was similar to Barrow’s experience. 

I grew up around people who went hunting, so when I think of hounds I often picture this or, alternatively, gaudy oil paintings of English fox hunts. I also know that hounds won’t really stop until they’ve caught what they’re hunting and will tear their prey apart if left unchecked. Was this some of the inspiration behind the name for the cult in this book? 

SAM R: Hey, same! To be honest I don’t think I thought about it like that at all until reading this question, but that’s such a good point and interesting layer to the name. Let’s just say that was intentional from here on out…I like that. 

The name was mostly just centered around the long-snouted appearance of the WW1 era gas masks while also being a nod to how animalistic this cult was trying to be. We love a double entendre.

SAM F: Sam and I both grew up in Western Maryland and I think it’s this weird pocket that feels like the Deep South erupted there. People I went to school with all hunted and fished but more importantly were burdened so heavily by this need to be hardened. Time and time again, I think it’s proven why that need for men to be hardened and cold benefits no one. 

The “good guys” in Hound turn out to be… well… pretty awful in the end. Barrow is off put by what they’ve been up to (and I have a feeling other readers might be too). Can you tell us about this decision? What led you to this particular narrative beat instead of just relying on the Central Powers as the sole villains of the story. 

SAM R: This was definitely a conscious decision. I think the larger political circumstances for why a war is being waged to that scale is often lost on those fighting on the front line. A lot of the time for them, the mentality they adapt is only in the name of personal survival. We definitely set out to not mention the larger issues surrounding the war in this—we thought that they would be the last thing on Barrow’s mind when facing what he faces during the events of the book. 

SAM F: I think a lot of that lies in what war asks its soldiers to become as a means to win. I think it’s important that this story exists in a bubble like Sam was saying. It is purely Barrow’s experience.

There’s a particularly unsettling moment in Hound when the soldiers that Barrow finds himself with take their gas masks off—which are terrifying in and of themselves—to finally reveal their faces. It’s extremely effective, and one of my favorite moments in the story. Would you say that their monstrousness is a product of the cult that they have formed, the horrors of war, or a little bit of both? And can you speak to why you decided to keep them looking so human?

SAM F: I think there’s something to be said that the Hounds are just more bodies thrown atop the pile. I think there is a pack mentality and of course shared trauma between them all. I feel it’s a situation where if one dog barks it causes the others to as well.

SAM R: I agree with Sam F. Definitely both. I think they also represent the other side of Barrow’s coin. I think one of the core themes of the story is not losing yourself to the circumstances of the world around you. The Hounds represent absolutely that. 

What was the inspiration behind the wolves that appear throughout the book? Are you fans of them as a whole, or is there a deeper meaning here?

SAM R: To me, the presence of the wolves is pretty integral to what we’re trying to say with the story as a whole. This cult we meet in the book (the Hounds) believe that the role humanity plays in the world is incorrect—that humans should give into their animalistic and primal desires to reach a fuller potential. We see the actual animals in the story (the wolves) sort of latching onto our main character Barrow, as even they see the actions of The Hounds as unnatural. At the end of the book (spoiler), it’s the wolves that show Barrow compassion instead of violence by licking his wounds. This is a reference to what we believe our inherent nature to actually be.

SAM F: Definitely echoing what Sam said—I like to think they represent the true cyclical nature of the world and a power balance being restored. A kind of final, cosmic indication that Barrow is a good person despite the things he has done. 

Speaking of the wolves…the monster design paired with the large wolves that appear in this book make me think you might both be werewolf guys when it comes to classic horror creatures. Are you? If not, is there a preexisting monster design that you love?

SAM F: I don’t know if I liked werewolves as a kid and that’s why I watched Van Helsing or if I watched Van Helsing and that’s why I like werewolves but I love werewolves. I love that entire Universal monster universe, especially the Wolf Man. Beyond werewolves, I would say my favorite creature design has to be the aliens from Attack the Block. 

SAM R: As far as the design for anything within this book, all credit goes to our artist Rodrigo Vazquez. Obviously werewolves are badass, but all design in this book started with us giving Rodrigo a one sentence description of our very unfleshed idea and then him returning with something better than literally anything we could have imagined. If I can use this as the opportunity to get on the Rodrigo soap box—if you don’t feel inclined to check out the book for the story, please just pick it up at a shop and flip through it to look at Rodrigo’s art. I’m a firm believer that the comics I write are 25% mine and 75% our artists, and Rodrigo deserves every ounce of praise that anyone feels inclined to give our book. If you don’t like the book, you can direct the hate at us. It’ll for sure be because of something we did, not him. He’s incredible. 

Now that Hound is out in the world, what are you two working on? Can we expect another collaboration sometime in the future? 

SAM F: We have some stuff cooking! I’m really excited about a few of the things we have bumping around. 

SAM R: The Sam and Sam kitchen is always cooking, baby. I think we’ve got a pretty cool vision for what our next things will be. There will be more to tell soon! 

Foster launched an enormously successful Kickstarter to introduce more people to his lifelike skull-shaped ceramic bowls. Nothing madcap or whimsical here; these bowls look like one has piled up Froot Loops inside an actual human cranium. The level of detail in the work leads one to the inevitable contemplation of mortality; as the artist told me as we spoke, the skull is what is left when “life’s final mask is removed.”

The bowls are the latest in a series of Foster’s works focused on the inexorable nature of death and our relationship to it. I had to ask him: why memento mori?

Foster sighed before he began. “In the depths of the pandemic, in March 2020 when everybody was losing their minds, I started working on that series. Skulls had come into my work before, but it all connected during that time. It put so much in perspective—it’s almost a cliché, but at the time, death was at the forefront of my thoughts. And that was a healthy thing. Inevitable situation death. And there it was, staring at me in the face. So, I was driving home the connection with the Latin motto memento mori.”

A common choice for tombstones in Europe from the Middle Ages until the 18^th century, the phrase means: remember you will die.

“Death has been a theme of some of the things I make,” Foster continued.  But it’s not macabre. I think of the skull as an object. It’s not gruesome or violent. It’s a symbol; and I connect to it as a form and as a symbol.”

Who is the ideal customer? Who do you imagine using this bowl?

“I think that the ideal thing with art is connection. I’m tired of putting art in white square rooms, going to a gallery where you clasp a glass of wine and feel awkward while you look at squares on the wall.  My ideal experience is one where you feel more comfortable with the art. But the utilitarian stuff is more intimate. It goes direct to customer, to their living room. They hold it in their hand, they drink their coffee from it. It’s integrated. Art on the wall can be forgotten. A detailed art piece like the mug or bowl can be integrated into their life. And the same level of care and detail that I put into fine art, I do all that in this practical work.”

And what an exciting Kickstarter! Raising almost $200,000 for these practical objets d’art.

“I was basically a starving artist, just scraping by in Seattle. I had Kickstarted a few things before, but none of them had taken off like this. I saved up some money to move to Thailand, and just to lived bare-bones in an empty room, reading and making art every day. The pandemic got to this work and to Kickstarter again, and this was the first time I sold a substantial amount of art. I think that happened because a lot of people connected to the message. That allowed me to make more art, and more of a range of art. Before, I had to take commissions. Now I do this full time.”

Were you inspired by other forms of skull art? Like the Sedlec Ossuary in Prague, or the ascetic kapala in India?  

“I was inspired by seeing smuggled skulls! Not from Thailand, but definitely from other places. The oddities trading circle was very popular about seven years ago. A lot of people I knew were into it, collecting bones and strange things. It seems like a skull is the archetype of death, meaning different things to Buddhists or headhunters, but I was attracted to it. It’s a powerful symbol, wherever it is. As an artist, you look for those innate symbols of power.

But I also got turned off of it—human remains is not always the most ethical field to be in. A lot of these things, we don’t really know where they came from.”

Why do you call yourself a naturalist?

“I appreciate nature, but I’m also a hunter. I have a relationship with the land. I want to be in nature, but not in a passive way. I climb mountains. I collect insects, study etymology. I study anatomy. I think that I see art in terms of science, but I’m not a scientist. I chose that word because it describes my interests in anatomy and animals, but it’s not academic or environmentalist. You can’t get a job at it. Art and science don’t have strong defining lines between them.”

What’s next for you?

“I’ve always been interested in finding beauty in dark places. I have fulfilled the Kickstarter orders; they all shipped by Halloween.

“I want to go deeper into primates, that’s my next series. I want to present it in a philosophical way. The anatomy I know is mostly people, and I want to infuse personality, human qualities into ape anatomy. And then make them into a more utilitarian form, both realistic and suited for daily use. I like the idea of having a cup of coffee and reflecting on this thing. It’s hard to keep attention these days, to get people to look at art is next to impossible. And the people who have ethe time to stare at useless objects are not the ones I’m interested in. But people who can sit with the art and have a cup of coffee are exciting.

“I’m also planning a Cthulhu-esque octopus series. Not directly, not by that name. But I’m interested in a different form of intelligence that isn’t the human or primate form. The octopus is closer related to a snail than to us, but highly intelligent. It would be interesting if I could create this creature and show that mental energy. I’ve been diving deep into that very different anatomy—they’re aliens on earth.

Finally, I’ve been really into Goethe and Mephistopheles. I’m thinking about a Faustian devil. That idea is very much in progress. Faust is a great story for our times; everything is at our fingertips, and we have to endlessly strive through all that knowledge to keep ourselves sane.”

To keep track of the future in primate skulls and utilitarian octopus sculptures, find Trevor Foster in his online studio, or follow him on Instagram.