writer and critic
David Lewis is a writer and book critic based in Paris. He reads for The Commuter at Electric Literature and loves well-told stories - especially those that are queer, Native, creepy, and funny.
His short story collection, Ten Little Deaths, was a finalist for the Steel Toe Books Prose Prize and the George Garrett Fiction Prize.
David lives with his husband and their unbelievably cute dog. He is currently working on a novel and seeking representation.
Featured · Fiction
Every Halloween, kids dug up the story of Marshall Hawkins: Known Homosexual. Though still officially a missing person, everyone knows he was murdered, cut up and buried in different yards across town.
An interview with Peter-Adrian Altini, the author of the novel Salt Water Pool Boy.
A review of the short story collection Olyoke by Vincent Endwell.
Review of Joe Bond's novel Hope House.
Review of Dave Housley's novel Aliens Attack!.
Review of Justin Feinstein's novel Your Behavior Will Be Monitored.
A review of Ilana Masad's novel Beings.
Review of Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore's novel Terry Dactyl.
A contribution to Strange Horizons' highlights of 2025 (Part Two).
A contribution to The Ancillary Review of Books' notable books of 2025.
Review of Philip Fracassi's The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre.
Review of Kristina Ten's weird and wonderful short story collection Tell Me Yours, I'll Tell You Mine.
Review of Kristin Kirby's Dark Worlds We Wander.
I don't like to stereotype. But like most demons, Loïc thinks discretion means covering up the trail of smoldering footprints in his wake.
Review of Alexandria Faulkenbury's novel, Somewhere Past the End.
Review of Greg Hewett's novel, No Names.
On Del Sandeen's This Cursed House.
An essay on the Parisian life of the Polish artist and émigré, Bolesław Biegas.
Review of Mary G. Thompson's novel, One Level Down.
On Premee Mohamed's novel, One Message Remains.
On Megan Howell's debut short story collection, Softie.
On Choctaw historian and horror writer Devon Mihesuah's short story collection, The Bone Picker.
On Rebecca Anne Nguyen's novel, The 23rd Hero.
On editor Lindy Ryan's anthology, The Darkest Night.
On Brian Evenson's short story collection, Good Night, Sleep Tight.
On Helen Phillips' novel, Hum.
“Darkness became light. Despair became joy. It felt as though all of France was singing, dancing, and racing towards a future where belonging is measured by how well you love your neighbor.”
On Lyndsie Manusos' debut novella, From These Dark Abodes.
On the reprinting of Eugene Lim's debut novel, Fog & Car.
On K-Ming Chang's novella, Cecilia.
On Ananda Lima's hybrid collection, Craft: Stories I Wrote for the Devil.
On Morgan Talty's novel, Fire Exit.
On editor Angie Sijun Lou's collection, Dark Soil: Fictions and Mythographies.
On Lee Mandelo's novel, The Woods All Black.
On Tommy Orange's novel, Wandering Stars.
She lifted the knife and pointed it at him. “When I was pregnant with you, all I could think about was meat. And I would have eaten it raw if your father hadn't stopped me.”
On Rebecca Hirsch Garcia's debut short story collection, The Girl Who Cried Diamonds.
On Nghiem Tran's debut novel, We're Safe When We're Alone.
On Rikki Ducornet's novella, The Plotinus.
On editors James McNulty and Gerrod Schwarz's Driftwood 2023 Anthology.
“Last week Momma told me that I was the queerest thing in Salina until The Bomb came along.”
A list of classic vampire stories.
A list of stories with terrifying doubles.
A list of creepy children in horror stories.
A list of great haunted house novels.
“He watched the new girl sink. Her eyes didn't flinch from him. They didn't blink. Then her lips moved – as if a dark thread was pulling them, they twitched into a smile.”
“Dad thinks someday I'll like girls. Mom thinks someday I'll win a Nobel prize. I think I can turn into a satyr. I'm the realistic one.”
“I asked if France had laws about resurrections; Ayden told me to stop talking like a Yank.”
“The emcee makes the category calls. Stop talking. Who's walking? A dancer for me. This contest is open. Democracy! Oui!”
“There's a black box crouching on the doormat. A gift. The lid has a grey bow and a sprig of wilted mistletoe, its berries leaking droplets of glue. It looks like a hatbox for a Christmas gremlin.”
“Two locations stand out at the festival: first is the field labeled Grounds for Shooting, second is Santa's Village. We're in line for the latter.”
“Smith isn't my real name. Fun fact: Humans can only pronounce orc names while belching. So for decorum's sake, I'm Smith at the book warehouse where I work.”
When you can't legally get married, how do you deal with that uncomfortable question every unmarried couple hears at a wedding: “So when are you two tying the knot?”
“I've married a man of one word, the clumsiest word. How can you write get three times in two sentences? I quaffed my wine.”
“Our job was to dissolve into the wall. That upset Charity until she decided it applied exclusively to me.”
“So here I was, the token queer (don't pretend you didn't notice) with his spinster aunt, having dinner on deck with two Floridians, a Wall Street oracle, his wife and a widower king of Washington real estate.”
“We could save on furniture by sharing a bed…He laughed away what I'd been trying to say all month. His laugh made me shy, but all that first month in Paris he hadn't played straight.”