The stories in Megan Mayhew Bergman’s third collection deal with the idea of inheritance—what parts of themselves women bequeath to their children, to one another, to men, and what’s left once those parts are given away.
Jill McCorkle’s new novel, out today, is obsessed with memory and trauma: how we are often living two lives at once, our bodies moving and doing in the present while our minds are simultaneously being drawn into the past, both real and imagined.
The presence in Belle Boggs’ new novel of the Gulf of Mexico parallels an exploration of the other gulfs that threaten us: between politics and art, art and money, and between people of different beliefs.
The South, to Emily Pease, is “beautiful and memory-rich, with a layer of dark.” The same could be said about her stories, though the layer of dark within is thick and permeates the whole—like the heat on an August day in the South, nothing is left untouched by it.
Mark Doten’s novel opens with the fictional Trump making a bad decision. All over the world, the internet has gone down. When it comes back up, for reasons no one quite understands, he uses the nuclear codes.
Niviaq Korneliussen’s novel is short, only around two hundred pages, but it moves like a bullet: powerful, emotionally dense, and over much more quickly than I wanted it to be.
Yan Lianke’s new novel asks: Are we dreamwalking through our entire lives?
Amparo Dávila’s collection is reminiscent of Shirley Jackson, Franz Kafka, and Edgar Allen Poe, and tests the limits of fiction.
In response to her novel, The Lake on Fire, Rosellen Brown has been compared to both Jane Austen and Tillie Olsen.
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