"Sins of My Father" by Ronald Forester, is even more haunting on a second read. The layered imagery-the chemical burn of Phisohex, the relentless snow, the Gremlin as a symbol of lurking danger-builds an atmosphere of inherited dread that's hard to shake. The narrator's voice feels so intimately raw, oscillating between childlike confusion and adult reckoning, especially in moments like discovering the discs or confronting Steve in the barn. That Polaroid reveal and the ironic twist with Scott Peterson's postcard land with devastating force, underscoring how trauma echoes across lives and even frees the wrongly accused.
The prose is tight and evocative, with short chapters creating a rhythmic pulse that mirrors suppressed memories surfacing. It's a powerful exploration of how a father's monstrosity poisons everything, yet leaves room for fragile redemption through writing and family. Deeply affecting work, Ronald-fiction or not, it resonates like truth. If there's more to this story or a full manuscript, I'd read it in a heartbeat
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