by Mary Ruefle
You grow old.
You love everybody.
You forgive everyone.
You think: we are all leaves
dragged along by a wheel.
Then comes a splendid spotted
yellow one—ah, distinction!
And in that moment
you are dragged under.
-
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by Akwaeke Emezi
4/5
I recently read Akwaeke Emezi’s poetry for the first time and loved it, so it’s no surprise I was a fan of their prose, too. Little Rot is intense, fast-paced, and filled with surprising twists and turns. I read it for a book club, and we all agreed that it would make a riveting action film should a screenwriter decide to tackle an adaptation. The plot of the novel takes place over the span of slightly more than 24 hours. For a piece that includes so many alternating characters and viewpoints, it’s surprisingly intricate and detailed without being convoluted with too many concurrent plots. My main issue with the story, and the reason it didn’t receive that fifth and final star, was that by the end of the novel, the characters did not seem to have grown or developed in any noticeable way; however, I recognize that Emezi did as much in regards to their characters as was probably possible within the time frame of the story.
Overall, I really liked this book. I think it would be a tricky one to recommend to other readers because of the intensity of the subject matter—Emezi was not exactly light-handed on the graphic violence and sex—but I do think it was an impressive and incredibly well-written book.
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A shotgun in the backyard silences the barking.
Don’t misunderstand me,
the man has not shot his dog.
In the morning, when the man wakes,
the bitch will be gone, her only trace
the holes she chewed in his once-brand-new suede leather boots.The other dogs will howl until they tire
of the raucous and return to lick
the man’s bare feet while he weeps.The man,
who will witness the great return.
The man,
who only cries when he’s not alone.
The man,
who forgets he was something else first.
He prays for the end of the world.
A shotgun in the backyard shortens the praying.
In theory,
not so great a tragedy.
There are always other men willing,
or waiting, to seduce stray dogs home
with a flank of rib or a rawhide bone.She empties his pockets on the way out,
a sinner in the rags of a traveling thief
as she unbuilds his home, stone by stoneThe thief,
who speaks with the heretic’s voice.
The thief,
who stitches the wounds that a lesser man sowed
The thief,
who begs the others: come with me.
She buries the dogs by the sycamore tree.
A shotgun in the backyard raises the dead.
They circle like wolves against the house
in-between the here the there
A nightmare’s daydream of a time before, or,an apocalypse already past, embedded
under the skin, to remind us of the
inevitabilities we are left with:The dog,
who is only a dog, who forgives
The man,
who is only a man, who envies
The thief,
who was never a thief, though she often forgets–
And you, whining like a dog in heat.
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by KB Brookins
In the beginning, heaven begat earth & earth
begat Sunday. For this one, I’m sitting in a desk chair
crafted by hands, all somewhere unaware
that they’re now touching bare skin. This
is all the proof I needed, but I’m feeling generous
with language, so I’ll try to make this quick: in
the dreams of my dearest enemies, I am kissing dirt
handled by a million years of fertilizer & dead
skin in a casket made by the son of someone or
a sibling that was loved by many. Everything that exists
has a birthstory. Some days, I touch mud just to high-five
the humans that willed it. But today, just like any day,
I could never be alone. Today I am polyam with the sunlight
& trees just like Bjork wanted. I mean polyam as in
I talk to them. I mean alone as in there isn’t a human
here to witness this desk chair be a utility & a lineage.
When I pause long enough to listen, the ancestors speak to me.
They remind me that everything in the world has been
touched & every surface has dependence on something
using it. I chuckle in agreement & tell them that lonely
is a capitalist concept. I tell the lover coming
from the showerhead to kiss me until I’m clean. -
by Mona Awad
After reading most of Mona Awad’s repertoire and discussing them with friends, I’ve come to the conclusion that whether or not someone likes one of her books depends primarily on how much they connect to the situations being satirized. I have friends who are obsessed with Bunny, who thought All’s Well was boring as hell, and who love the fairytale-style of Rouge. Personally, I don’t like Awad’s writing style in general but I am intrigued by her method of choosing niche, personal subject matter that’s almost akin to telling an inside joke—if you get it, you get it, and if you don’t, you just don’t.
My individual reviews, in order from lowest to highest rating:
- Rouge, 2/5: I thought this story, and the writing, were lackluster. It didn’t ever really do what it seemed like it was trying to do. I wanted Rouge to delve deeper into the social commentaries on race and beauty, but Awad only ever skimmed the surface of these topics. Aside from that, none of the characters underwent any kind of development or transformation, and the romance felt forced.
- Bunny, 3/5: I didn’t explicitly dislike this one, but I didn’t really like it either. I have the distinct feeling that this story isn’t meant for me, and that’s okay. My friends and coworkers who were involved in sororities in college really liked this one; they’ve said it reminds them of those types of clique-ish relationships found in sororities and other similar women-only groups. I’ve never had that type of experience with female friends, so I think I just didn’t get it! I would still recommend it to someone looking for a woman-led magical realist story, or to someone specifically looking for a satire of mean girl cliques.
- All’s Well, 4/5: This was my favorite of Awad’s work, and the only one that I would actively say I enjoyed reading. I thought Miranda’s interactions with her doctors and coworkers are a beautiful example of what it feels like to experience medical trauma and gaslighting and how it feels to suffer from invisible chronic pain. As a fan of Shakespeare, I also really enjoyed the theatre element and the thematic allusions to Macbeth. That being said, I think All’s Well is similar to Bunny in the sense that it seems like it would only hit home if you have a personal connection to the subject matter, so I’d only be likely to recommend it to someone who has experience with and is okay with reading about chronic illness.
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by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck
in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,
the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—
then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,
bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—
and when I say I am married, it means I married
all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.
Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many
slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal
for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs a bubbling pot
on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps
in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another
whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single
one of them wonders what time I am coming home. -
by Ursula Villarreal-Moura
4/5
I picked this up from a bookstore down the street called Gladys Books and Wine. It was a random choice–I’d never heard of the title or author before–and I’m so glad I stumbled onto it.
Like Happiness tackles the same subject matter that’s been rising in popularity since the MeToo movement first started a few years ago, but it does so in what I find to be a particularly unique and compelling way. The story jumps back and forth between the narrator’s interactions with a journalist regarding her former ambiguous relationship with a famous author and her letter to the author in question. Villarreal-Moura delicately tackles the grey area of what’s appropriate between so-called “friends,” between a young woman and an older man, and between a celebrated writer and his fan. There’s little that Mateo does that explicitly crosses a clear line into sexual abuse, yet most of his behavior feels recognizably uncomfortable in the context of his relationship to Tatum, even if it’s sometimes difficult as a reader to put your finger on the reason why.
(This paragraph contains spoilers): I think this distinction between reasonable and inappropriate is most obvious in Tatum’s drunk email to the journalist towards the end of the novel. Unlike Mateo, she notes, the journalist doesn’t feel the need to respond to her email. He doesn’t choose to cross that line, while Mateo never had any qualms about inserting himself into his young fan’s life. I particularly appreciated the way that Mateo’s final choice to use Tatum’s life, without permission or credit, as inspiration for his new novel imitates the choices that famous male artists have made throughout history. This plot point reminded me of artists like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Picasso, who are still celebrated for their originality and creativity despite their unashamed plagiarism of the work and experiences of the women in their lives.
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You know the line: it’s not you, it’s me.
You were perfect,
I swear. Couldn’t have asked
for better. Even that one time
you flooded out of nowhere,
leaving me to drive to the
auto repair shop with my pedals
nearly underwater. Even when your
cruise control stopped working halfway
through my two-week drive to New York.
Little things like these could never
have stopped me from treasuring you,
and please believe, they didn’t.
You were my first way out. You
were my first taste of freedom, my
introduction to the idea that there are
roads yet to be taken. Roads
we can still turn down. There’s always
time left to discover a new route,
and my little red Honda HR-V and me, well,
we found so many. Little town after
little town, suburb after
suburb. Up and down the same
old freeway, sure, but never the same sights.
From late-night roommate trips to Whataburger to
the weekend ferries of student stoners to
the closest HEB with fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Coffee cart catering gigs, kayaking trips, and
my own personal changing room at overcrowded pools.
Moving in, moving out. Making out in the backseat.
Do you remember when you carried me and
Emma halfway across the state? We were
chasing the solar eclipse. We made it
to Kerrville, where we thought we were headed,
and then we all said, “What if we just kept going?”
We watched the darkness overhead from some curb
outside Medina as Emma and I gaped in awe at the impossibility
of life and the miracle of us being there to witness it,
and you stood ready to take us home.
And that summer, “the bad summer,” as I like
to call it now, although they’re all kind of bad
when you’re living somewhere with road tar hot
enough to melt the rubber off your shoes,
you were the only thread holding my sanity together.
I know you remember the route: south down 35,
up Lamar, east down Airport, back north up the feeder. And
if we got home and I didn’t feel better yet, well, that’s okay,
baby, let’s run it again. It would have bored anyone else
to tears how many times I made you do laps with me,
but you didn’t mind. Want to blast sad girl indie rock on the stereo?
Sure, that’s fine with you. Want to scream along to
midwest emo in heavy traffic with the windows rolled down?
Whatever I need.
You alone understood: I came of age on the Interstate.
Even in my childhood daydreams, kolaches marked the halfway
point and semi-abandoned gas stations sold gadgets
I shouldn’t have understood in vending machines
that never saw repairs. A court-ordered road trip kid
doesn’t stand a chance of healing anywhere else.
If I’m ever to let go, I think, it’s got to be now.
I can’t always be waiting here in Bushwick with
one hand on my MetroCard and one hand
on your driver’s side door. I can’t keep sitting
behind the wheel, thinking about how I’ve cried
in this one spot more than anywhere else. I’ve cried
with you more than I have with anyone else.
I’d like to not be crying anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not your fault.
It’s just how we were.
And I know I’m not supposed to admit this, I know
it goes against my “pedestrians rule the streets”
kind of attitude and my love of public transportation,
But, oh, I loved you so.
You, who always carried me where I needed to go.
-
by Adrian Sobol
The Moon demands to be taken
seriously. Me too. So I write a letter,
address it, lick the envelope shut.Dear Moon, come back, we have so much
in common. Let’s hang out sometime.
I haven’t worn my floral dress sincethat summer in the commune,
salting my body with sage
to cleanse the housesinside me. The ghosts
just won’t leave. They harbor.
They feast. They saythe sky is indifferent
without you. Stars go quiet
one by one like distant ships.If I were a constellation
I’d have burned out
in front of everyone too.They’d call me Argos
after Odysseus’ dog
who waited to dieuntil his master could
watch. Hey, Moon
I don’t believe inastrology. I still
know exactly who I am.
I forgive myselffor it once a day.
Moon, please
I just want to be seenas anybody else. That summer,
when I saw my portrait
For the first time, I was touched.It looked nothing like me.
I said Thank you.
It looks nothing like me. -
By Maria Reva
5/5
Endling was my favorite read of 2025 so far. I discovered Maria Reva a few years ago when she had just published her debut novel, Good Citizens Need Not Fear, and I’ve been eagerly waiting for more since. Good Citizens was an interconnected short story collection that follows the residents of an accidentally uncataloged apartment building in Ukraine. The book’s characters and unusual style left quite an impression on me and I think about it often. Endling was no different. The plot is ingenious bordering on insane. I’m fairly certain no one else would have come up with a cast of characters that include an asexual snail scientist, the two daughters of a disappeared activist, and the Ukrainian bridal tourism industry itself. Reva’s book tackles some of the heaviest topics of our current society, yet somehow comes across as more whimsical than dark. It has a magic to it that I yearn for in my literary fiction, and I’m sure I’ll be thinking about it, and recommending it for years to come.
Emily Vance Brown 