I was introduced to Cris Freddi while in college. And Freddi is one of those writers who doesn’t so much “tell a story” as quietly lure you into a world you don’t realise you’re sinking into until it’s too late. Pork is classic proof.
It’s the kind of anthology that seems, on the surface, almost deceptively simple — brief episodes, animal figures, a landscape that feels stripped down to its bones — but the emotional echo it leaves behind is weirdly disproportionate. Like someone tapped a tuning fork two rooms away and your heart picked up the vibration.
Reading it feels like stepping into a fable that refused to stay obedient. There’s this incredibly delicate balance Freddi keeps between charm and cruelty, like he wants to remind you that nature isn’t Disney-coded; it’s sharp, unpredictable, and absolutely uninterested in your comfort.
But instead of leaning into bleakness, he plays with tone—sometimes darkly funny, sometimes startlingly tender—so you’re always slightly off-balance, always renegotiating your relationship to the characters and the landscape.
What makes the book so singular, though, is its emotional honesty. There’s no sentimentality here, no manipulative moralising. Freddi trusts you to feel what’s necessary without being nudged toward any grand statement. And strangely, that restraint makes the story more moving. It’s like someone hands you a set of fragments and lets you assemble the emotional picture yourself — which, honestly, feels far more respectful than many sweeping novels that tell you exactly what to think.
Another thing that stands out is Freddi’s sense of rhythm. He writes in this controlled, unshowy style that somehow makes every word feel intentional. When tension hits, it hits quietly. When humor lands, it’s dry but perfectly timed. And the world he builds—sparse, wild, almost mythic — stays lodged in your mind after you’re done, like a dream you didn’t fully understand but can’t shake off.
By the time you finish Pork, you’re weirdly aware of how much you care about creatures and moments you barely knew a handful of pages ago. That’s the magic: he makes you invest without warning.
And when the story finally pulls away, it leaves you a little hollowed out, a little grateful, a little unsettled — which is exactly the place great short fiction should leave you.
If you’re the sort who loves stories that look small but carry emotional shrapnel, this is your book. It’s quiet but unforgettable, odd but intimate, simple but not remotely simplistic.
And it fully earns its cult reputation.
Recommended.