The child’s joy was contagious. He had no idea this would be one of the most symbolic moments of his life. He emanated sunlight, smiling.

Moments of happiness and recurring lucidity. Life previously so turbulent became a blue ocean of calm. We fought for the first time, the hurt flowed like rain, and the world collapsed after the relapse. I asked myself several times, “Does no one like me?”

Months that used to pass quickly now pass slowly, dragged by force through time.

At the end of the year, the bright star passed by so quickly that almost no one saw it, but that hopeful child did. He requested to have one more chance to change an uncertain future.

Just like the stars that shone that night, the notification appeared. In the middle of the pitch-black, hope rose again with one simple question, can we still be friends?

Maybe I was too hasty. Maybe I should have thought more. If I leave, will you remember me? It’s sad to know I no longer have you with me, smiling. It’s sad to delete the memories of good and magical moments. It’s sad to see you moved on, and I’m still standing at the same bus stop. Now, I’m the one asking the question, can we still be friends?

Top Notes:

Crisp, elusive, clean.

Like the dried orange peel that flits from fingertips into the shallow of the beach water with the moon draping beyond, and the sand particles drifting past lips when the wind kneads hair into twisted knots while the brine never dries.

Pores opening to inhale scent. Mouth opening along with little holes in my skin, and I can almost hear the crunchy, grainy, salty sand rolling in my mouth. I am the voyeur, standing alone in the middle of an open beach.

My unintentional gift— the orange peel— where did it go? It should have sunk underneath the salty waves and laid motionlessly on the brown sugary sand. It should still be there, stagnant, stationary, waiting to be picked up and returned to my hand. And yet, I don’t see a glimpse of murky orange underneath sand-filled water. The moon nods winks at the beach, it pulled my offering away, but I hadn’t had the chance to see it leave.

There exists no orange by the shore.

Middle Notes:

The top notes are long gone and the remaining concoction blooms into a deep creaminess. The velvety middle notes melt into my skin, but my mind yearns for the clean scent of an orange peel flying away. I can’t delight in the taste of time gliding out of reach.

A cycle of fingertips presses down on the oblong perfume nozzle. Spritzes of chemicals grace the air. I exhale. Sniff deeply to replace the remaining air in my lungs with a glimpse of the dried orange peel that has long since flown away into the ocean by the moon’s accord. There’s a nervous haste to my actions. A senseless, irrational desperation for something I know is transient, a bit too ephemeral, something better left in the past.

Base Notes:

The remains after the disintegration of the baked orange and soft cream. The brunt of the burnt metallic base note lingers and settles into my skin. It pockmarks the open gaping holes, an excess of chemicals sunken in because of my earlier desperate spritzes.  

I can smell it. I feel it sinking and carving a territory into my skin, and I thrust my inner elbow underneath my friend’s nose. Trust me, it’s there. But when they try to breathe the chemicals into their lungs, their nose denies its existence. I hunch my back and dive into the juncture of my elbow and inhale. It’s not there in my nose, but I feel it burrowing under my flesh. The pain triggers memory as a reliving and relieving of the process of the death of The Moon by Planetary Pull.

November is Native American Heritage Month. My personal tradition for this month dictates I read work by local and international Indigenous authors and educate myself as best I can. I would love for you to join me in this.

I’d like to explain why I chose these books over others. I didn’t want my selection to seem arbitrary—I especially didn’t want another lip-service listicle posted for relevant web traffic. This is a topic I care about, and I want to give it the thought and respect it deserves. While selecting these titles, I chose not to abide by colonizer-imposed borders differentiating between the lands we call Canada and the United States, thus identities of “Native American” and “Native Canadian.” These borders were not decided by Indigenous people themselves; instead, they were forced upon them by settlers. In turn, I chose to abide by the Haudenosaunee understanding of Turtle Island, which recognizes the entire North American continent as one.

The name Turtle Island comes from the creation story of the Haudenosaunee, but you may know it by its anglicized name, the Iroquois confederacy. In this story, Sky Woman falls from the clouds but is caught by seabirds and placed on the back of a turtle in a giant ocean. Sky Woman understood she wouldn’t be able to live the rest of her life on the back of a turtle, so she enlists the help of various aquatic creatures to swim to the bottom of the ocean and bring her back to soil. All fail except for the muskrat, and using the soil it brings her, she builds what we now know as North America on the back of the turtle. Different groups have their own variants of this story, but, at its core, this story highlights cultural tenets of the relationship between person, land, and animal. 

I have also made the conscious choice to include only Indigenous women and two-spirit writers. It felt important to highlight the intersectionality of oppression, and, as someone living on Stolen Treaty 7 land, highlight the voices of those most in need of support.

Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich

Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich is a short-story cycle released in 1984 that follows multiple generations of three families: the Lamartines, the Kashpaws, and the Morisseys. It spans from the 1930s through the 1980s on an Ojibwe reservation split between Minnesota and North Dakota. Toni Morrison wrote “the beauty of Love Medicine saves us from being completely devastated by its power.” Despite this, I was still devastated. This book was important to include not just because of its deft handling of historical understanding, but because of the resilience and its joy. In these short stories, Lulu Lamartine becomes an active member of the American Indian Movement after her house is seized much to the chagrin of her entire family; Lipsha Morissey attempts to rescue his grandparents marriage, is ravaged by assimilationist traumas of boarding schools all while mourning his own missing mother; and Marie Kashpaw fights over spoons with the nun who abused her.  However, it never lets tragedy and injustice take center stage. True to its title, Love Medicine refocuses understandings of Oijibwe communities through joy and humor. The characters are not simple caricatures of the noble savage or vanishing Indian, but first and foremost, they are fully developed, flawed humans. 

Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson

Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson, released in 2000, tells the story of Lisamarie Hill, who recently lost her brother under suspicious circumstances. The book follows her search for answers in the small Haisla community of Kitamaat just off Vancouver Island. The story combines Haisla legend and myth with gothic and horror conventions to tell the story of different hauntings— of a girl, of her family, and of a community by the specters of colonialism and violence. It’s also haunted by contemporaneous events as it explores what it means to be Indigenous and missing, especially as a woman. Notably, around the time of Monkey Beach’s release, the atrocious acts of Robert Pickton came to light. The book reckons with contemporary Indigenous traumas using their own ways of knowing rather than the Western idea of being followed by ghosts or demons. Instead, Lisamarie sees Sasquatch-like b’gwus and a little red-haired man who predicts when bad events will take place. Yet, despite the moments of haunting, Monkey Beach balances the fright with more optimistic cultural traditions. Lisamarie is extremely close with her Ma-ma-oo, her grandmother, who she forages, fishes, camps, and cooks with. There is a particularly touching scene where they make oolichan grease, which depicts contemporary Haisla living as a complicated, but changing, mixture of joy and sorrow. 

Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Optimism is the cornerstone of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, which was released in 2013. This collection of creative nonfiction-cum-essays-cum-nature writing weaves together science, traditional Powatomi knowledge, personal anecdote, and reflection as easily as a braid of sweetgrass, defying the Western genre category with grace and ease. My favorite essays in this book are “Violets and Asters,” “The Honourable Harvest,” and “The Three Sisters.” What I love about these essays is how they Indigeneize knowledge we have all been taught, while also highlighting we were only taught half of the story. Braiding Sweetgrass centers Indigenous relationships with the land—learning from the land, reciprocity with the land, and acting as stewards of the land. Kimmerer appropriates Western science and brings it into Indigenous ways of knowing, presenting the folly of colonization and the reality that those of us who share Turtle Island are not so different. It is uniquely prescient as climate disaster looms. For me, especially, this book reminded me that, as the descendant of colonizers living on stolen land, the least I can do is care for that land. 

Split Tooth by Tanya Tagaq

Split Tooth is unlike any book I have ever read. It was released 2018 but set in the 1970s when the author was a child.  It defies categorization by combining prose, poetry, memoir, and illustration to craft a biotext about the coming of age of a young Inuit woman navigating generational trauma, pregnancy, and the intensity of the natural world. The term biotext, coined by Fred Wah, describes work not wholly fictional nor wholly autobiographical—the idea is it is not either/or but authentic to the experience. Tagaq highlights how this is a form uniquely suited to postcolonial writing as it refuses Western-imposed categories to engage with Inuk oral and musical traditions, folklore, legend, and spiritualities. Furthermore, it worked! There is no contrivance, no forcedness to its experimentation. It feels as though there was truly no other way this story could have been written. While reading Split Tooth, I could feel how Tagaq sank her heart into this book; and there were real, emotional stakes for her, which reminded me there are real, emotional stakes for me, too.

Making Love with the Land by Joshua Whitehead

Making Love with the Land by Joshua Whitehead is the rebellious child of Braiding Sweetgrass and Split Tooth. Released in 2022 and categorized as creative nonfiction, Whitehead takes the torch Kimmerer carries and shoots it clear to space. They explode genre, convention, and language into a new stratosphere, as well as blurring boundaries between gender, animal, plant, and land. It combines her clear-eyed wisdom with the ease and playfulness of Tagaq—I feel this book, also, could not have been written any other way. The words would not work the same in English, and I believe that’s the point. Outright refusing the confines of Western categorizations, Whitehead writes in half Oji-Cree, half English and incorporates writing systems that simply will not translate. And nor should they have to. Isn’t it my job to learn about my own land? This book hit particularly close to home for me, because Whitehead lives in the same city as me and teaches at the same university I attend. This book showed my own home through new eyes. Making Love with the Land is decolonial writing in its most current and realized form and is built on all that came before.

A final note: Indigenous peoples of Turtle Island are not monolithic. Though there are similar thoroughlines, each group is different. They speak different languages, have different cultures and traditions, and follow different spiritualities. There is so much rich variety, and the world ought to see it. I have tried to cover as many unique groups as I can: Louise Erdrich is Ojibwe, Eden Robinson is Haisla, Robin Wall Kimmerer is Powatomi, Tanya Tagaq is Inuk, and Joshua Whitehead is Oji-Cree.

“Are you breathing?”

The girl felt nausea in her nose all at once. Saltwater rose from her stomach, through her throat, and out of her mouth as she spat out bits of the sea trapped in her lungs. The woman standing above her frowned, but the girl didn’t answer her query. What kind of question was that, anyway? Could she have answered if she was not breathing? No.

Shuimu looked down. She was dressed, which was the most important thing. A black dress stuck uncomfortably to her skin, no shoes. The pulse of the waves pushed the fabric of the pants closer to her body, and it irritated her. She moved to her knees, pushing the woman’s hand away.

“What land is this?” Shuimu barked.

“You don’t know?” the woman answered. A smirk played across her face and a silver robe covered most of her frame.

Shuimu looked past the woman from her new resting spot. A blank darkness stared tauntingly back at her. The only light came from the woman, as if she had stolen the moon’s brightness and trapped it inside her. The waves continued to lap on the shore, but no sound came from them. Shuimu laughed out loud. She placed both hands on her chest, took a deep breath, and started chanting.

The Shurangama Mantra came out deep and strong from her lips. The pace was quicker than usual, if only to make the spell work faster.

“What are you doing?” the woman shrieked. “You can’t do magic at night, it’s forbidden here!” Shuimu opened one eye to watch the woman waving her arms. Shuimu smiled at the hysteria and continued her mantra.

“NAMO SARVA TATHĀGATA SUGATĀYA ARHATE SAMYAK-SAMBUDDHĀYA,” she called. Give praise to all the Exalted One, the Well Attained One, the Perfected Disciple, the Perfectly Self-Awakened One! Let us call the power of the Sun!

As she reached the end of the verse, she felt a shift in the air as the woman lunged at her.

Shuimu reached up to wrap her hand around the woman’s hair, twisting it and her head back. Shuimu pulled the woman’s head towards her own face so they were looking at one another upside down.

“Enough games, hag,” Shuimu hissed. “Take me out of this dream and back to my people.”

The woman feigned shock with a wide gasp on her face. She cried out, “What are you talking about?”

Shuimu brought her left hand down onto the woman’s throat and pressed until she heard the quiet, last gulp of air.

The woman’s body disappeared and the light within her died. Just as Shuimu guessed, the woman was none other than the shapeshifting moon in her human form, come to murder her. Too late, you tyrant, Shuimu thought. The horizon faded back into view. Trees on fire lit up the beach as the war against Shuimu’s people raged on. The uprising was here. There was no more time to waste.

Kaitlin Lounsberry

The Great Impersonator

As an avid fan of everything Halsey does, when she announced the concept behind her fifth studio album, The Great Impersonator, I was eager to see how she’d tackle this great feat. That being, every song on the album and its stylizing would impersonate an artist that’s influenced Halsey as a creative artist. Leading up to its release on October 25, Halsey teased the 18-track album and snippets of each song on her Instagram while modeling herself after one of the greats. From Stevie Nicks to Fiona Apple to Linda Ronstadt to Aaliyah, Halsey tackles an impressive range of styles and genres.

Most stunning, though, is the undercurrent buried in Halsey’s lyricism that one might overlook if they’re too distracted trying to determine which artist influenced which song. But pay attention and you’ll discover an album teeming with an artist grappling with their mortality. Haunting, depressing, ripping themselves apart and handing over the pieces, Halsey dives headfirst into her darkest moments, especially those following her diagnosis of Lupus SLE and a rare T-cell lymphoproliferative disorder in 2022. It’s as nuanced as you’d imagine and a powerhouse listen. It’s an album that leaves its listener feeling closer and more understanding to the person behind the tracks. Though I’m definitely biased, this is by far Halsey’s best work to date.

Simon Kerr

Compound Fracture

Miles lives in a small town where a blood feud between his ancestors and the sheriff’s family is written everywhere he looks. Murders both recent and ancient vie for his focus as he struggles to survive as an autistic trans teen in a conservative town. Andrew Joseph White writes incredible characters and vivid details, both of which will haunt your waking thoughts—in a good way!

Ari Iscariot

The Edge of Sleep

Stay awake. Stay alive. Don’t go to sleep. This is the haunting motif of The Edge of Sleep, a new show set in an apocalyptic world where sleeping means certain death. The story centers on Dave Torres, a man who has suffered terrible nightmares since infancy. In a cruel twist of fate, he is one of the few people left awake/alive when sleep descends upon the world and most of the population is trapped in a deadly nightmare. Alongside three other survivors, Dave must discover the source of this global epidemic and how to escape it—before they succumb to the siren call of sleep themselves.

While this is already a fascinating premise, The Edge of Sleep’s greatest strength lies in its actors. Matteo, Dave’s best friend, is the perfectly timed and gratefully received comic relief, cracking through the tension of this high octane show flawlessly. There’s Linda, the passionate and driven nurse with a guilty past, her drive never overshadowing her compassion for her patients and friends. Then Katie, the recovering addict, on a break from a loving yet tumultuous relationship with Dave, who offers him a safe place even as she faces her own demons. And Markiplier as Dave himself, delivering each of his lines with an earnestness that bleeds through every word. With his desperate, kind eyes and his doggedness to save his friends and the woman he loves, you never doubt the others willingness to trust him with their lives.

It’s also worth mentioning the show’s production value. For such a small budget, the atmosphere, setting, and lighting are brilliant. The Edge of Sleep doesn’t shy away from color or well-lit scenes: it possesses an X-Files level of mastery over framing the dark without taking away from its terror. Pulsing, strange dream sequences shine with neon and are haunted by terrifying visages from beyond human comprehension. Psychological torments endured by the characters, punctuated with ghastly dialogue, bring to mind The Twilight Zone—on mushrooms. While the show is plagued with minor errors that smaller projects often face, e.g. the occasional awkward camera angle or odd bit of pacing, this is ultimately a triumph for QCODE, Markiplier, and all who worked on it. Their passion and dedication make this show a unique and riveting experience, a stand-out amongst many other large budget endeavors.

In full disclosure, this review comes from a deeply personal place. I’ve been watching Mark’s videos since I was sixteen, and in the time I’ve observed his journey, he’s gone from excitedly reviewing a vacuum cleaner simulator 2013 to making the masterpiece that is the trailer for the movie Iron Lung. I mention this to exemplify the sky’s the limit when it comes to Mark’s efforts. Every project he’s worked on has grown in size, quality, and expert storytelling. I firmly believe a season two of The Edge of Sleep would build on the excellent foundation that has already been set, just as I believe that Mark will continue to make increasingly incredible media wherever he is given the opportunity.

Dominic Loise

Mallrats

The work of Kevin Smith has been in the zeitgeist for me this month. His ChronicCon came to Chicago right before I moved, bringing folks from different View Askew Productions films, tv shows, and podcast works. And recently, I had an hour-long discussion about Smith’s second film, Mallrats, which came out 29 years ago this October.

My friend, Carl, asked me if I liked the film since he was about to rewatch it. My short answer was yes, but then I went down the rabbit hole from there. I talked about how before Blade in 1998, Mallrats was instrumental in introducing comic book culture to the mainstream. Mallrats showed audiences the type of casual conversations Wednesday Warriors, who support brick-and-mortar comic shops, had as a community before Big Bang Theory was on television. It introduced the Stan Lee cameo before the Marvel movies started rolling out into theaters. But, most importantly, it took the premise of guys running around a mall, pulling pranks, trying to get girls, and moved it beyond the sub genre of 80’s sex farce comedy and brought a 90s indie sensibility to the genre. One which is respectful to women and telling men they can grow and be better. 

Since Mallrats, Kevin Smith has been going strong as a creator for three decades. I’ve heard him talk many times over the years. Each time, I have found him funny and insightful, and I’ve been impressed with how he can captivate an audience. But, what I find most fascinating about Kevin Smith is how he’s always encouraging others to not feel trapped by their surroundings and to get out and create something if they feel moved to do so.

a woman at night is like a man in the morning

except in all the ways she is not

for there are no means for the mounted streetlight to feel as warm

on skin

as the unrobed mid-day sun

nor can the sweet chirp of mothers to their young in the nest atop that big old birch

quite compare to the cricket’s night

interspersed by those phantom voices spun

by the hungry winds

gusty manhandling of autumn’s last branches

the moon for all her virtues

cannot give the time

no more than the sun can refrain himself from his merry traverse

on the trail of east to west

from dawn until dusk

when man’s wondrous telescope finds itself wrapped under a tarp

bearing the dirt of good fun

hoisted onto something so naturally manufactured for liberation

a Jeep, perhaps, or a pickup truck

 sans the sort of thing resembling a cover or door

or perhaps onto a back naked without the indentations of a bra

braced upon loud clunky feet that squelch down the mud path

they have never learned to tip-toe around uncles in living rooms

and meander to kitchens where mothers pour libations for thirsty throats or

to hush the patter of hurried footsteps

and avoid the big old lurker lying in the shadows

or to use inside voices when not inside

and listen for those foreign fingers hungry for tender necks

and to stay away from bad manners and shadows

no matter if the shadows transport  

to a poppy field

their pearly whiteness more spectacular night’s canvas and in it

where a patch of grass has

been worn down by calloused bare feet

in the same way man may fall to his knees

look at stars in skies

as the Romans did when Jupiter struck down light’s mandate from His celestial mantle so

too must woman fall

but to scatter rings of salt in the dark

knees resemble meniscus

at night man will delight in the moon

but know that she is nothing without sun’s light

woman could never think to look up

and arrive at this mournful realization

amongst the manic thrum of

howls erupting from the menagerie’s wolves menacing

the walk from car door to home door

uniformed silhouettes brandishing woven manacles

breeding fathers’ Mendelian gaze on adolescent breasts

dead men

and wandering fingers reeking of menthol and vapor

she hears them all in the menial silence of dawn’s darker precursor

senses heightened by menarche

and tragically

the scent of her own traitorous blood is what does her in before morning

All our guests have arrived, and we’re both at the altar.

I used to wonder what you thought about when you closed your eyes. When you were awake, it was easy enough to tell. You either had your nose down in a book, or you were taking a moment so we could listen to music or read together. You’d come up with these fantastic ideas as we danced to whatever song you chose, and when they blew my mind, you would give me the most breathtaking smile. But when you slept, it was a little harder. You didn’t toss and turn, you never made a peep. I watched you for years. And, though you never seemed quite happy, you always seemed the most at peace.

Everyone’s staring at you. Always at you.

I used to wish you’d never found me. We spent every moment together, since. Every class, every meal, and every conversation. It was great…but I felt guilty. You never spent time with anyone else, even when they asked first. No one ever saw me, standing when someone took the seat beside you, or quietly stepping back when they got too close and unknowingly pushed me aside. They never looked my way, and that was fine. But you never spoke to them, and I always felt like it was my fault.

You look so beautiful, I can barely hear the priest.

Would it have been this way if we’d never met, all those years ago? You knew me better than I knew myself. Maybe that was the problem. I savored every moment with you. But there were days you’d grow silent, and just stare at your phone. Days where you’d smile with everyone else, then cry the moment we got back to your room. There were a lot of those days, and I couldn’t comfort you through any of them. Those days, I wish you’d known me a lot less. Those days, I wished you could forget about me.

After the service, everyone stands as we head down the aisle.

I used to wonder about you. It was seventeen years ago you decided you were tired of playing alone, and you saw me for the first time. You dragged me into your make-believe games, and we’ve been together ever since. You were such a bright person. If we had grown apart, as most friends like us did, I know you wouldn’t have abandoned me. You would’ve sent me off with the most amazing story, more than I ever wanted, even if it could never compare to loving you. How it felt, being loved by you. You were everything, my Sun. I had always hoped you would forget me, and make better friends, like all the other children did. Now I wish I could’ve been enough.

They lower you into the ground. And I go with you.

Both moons were out tonight, their red and blue lights filtering through the branches overhead. The night where both moons were full came only once a year. If Esther were superstitious, she would take it as a sign that both moons were out the night she decided to run away from home.

The silence outside the high rampart of the city made her skin crawl. The cart’s wheels squeaked in protest as the draught horse’s hooves thudded in the dirt, drawing the cart forward. Inside the metal walls, the city was polluted by sirens wailing, car tires screeching, and factories churning away. Something behind those walls haunted Esther, and the fear sat deep in her chest as she recounted the seconds it took to get past the guards.

Crates surrounded her on all sides with her knees drawn up to her chest and a pelt blanket draped over her shoulders for warmth. To forget about the oppressive darkness of the surrounding forest, Esther kept her eyes pointed heavenward on the moons looming overheard. The driver’s rattling lantern was the only light source in the vicinity. The low noise of an owl hooting in the distance made Esther jump in surprise, slamming her elbow into a crate. The motion struck a nerve in her elbow, causing her to wince and hiss in pain.

“You alright back there, lass?” The driver asked, looking back at her.

She rubbed a hand against her elbow. A thick Valendolic accent touched his voice—a rare sound in the post-occupation era.

“I-I’m fine. No need to worry about me.”

“The owl startled you, eh?” he chuckled a bit. “I can’t blame you. Those buggers sound awfully intimidating this time of night. ‘Specially when you can’t see.”

“I’ve, uh, barely been out of the city myself. You don’t hear them a lot inside the walls.”

He nodded in understanding. “Makes sense. I can’t imagine animals wanting to live inside those blasted walls. Humans least of all.”

Somewhere, back within city limits, she knew her brother and father were panicking about where she was. What if they were phoning her now disconnected number, knocking on their neighbors’ doors asking if they’d seen her anywhere, or calling her school to ask if she’d come in for the day? Maybe her father was so desperate he reached out to her mother and ask if she’d decided to stay at her place. None of their efforts would yield answers—by daylight, Esther would be long gone.

This title was published on April 4, 2024 by Zsa Zsa Publishing.

In the wake of her son’s death, Debbie Enever’s world as a mother is wrenched away and a new identity of “midow” takes hold. A term coined by Enever herself, a midow is a mother who has lost, or widowed, her only child. Midowed: A Mother’s Grief explores the year after Dan’s death as she navigates organ donations, funerals, holding onto memories, and finding her future.

Segmented into three parts, the novel starts on a Saturday in late May 2018 following the immediate aftermath of Dan’s accident. Faced with the terrible fact that her son has died, Enever keeps us with her at every step—the trips between hospitals, the impossible decisions, and the horror of seeing her fifteen-year-old son lying unconscious in a hospital bed. The days following his accident are documented in journal entries that intimately navigate her year of loss. We also learn about the process of organ donation while Dan’s friends and family find other ways to honor his memory.

Threaded throughout the present narrative, Enever weaves in Dan’s childhood. This choice allows readers to experience his favorite holidays; how they find their beloved dog, Maggie; and how a mother and son bond over football. And it’s Dan’s fierce love of football that propels him towards athletic ambitions. In his teenage years, he joins a gym and starts making his own high-protein meal plans. From these moments, there’s no doubt Dan’s life was full of passion. The contrast of these timelines fits together, in part, because Dan’s voice is a constant in both. While we get vivid and energetic moments in his upbringing, we also continue to hear him after his death through Enever’s personification of him. Utilizing italics, Enever allows for dialogue, opinions, and even comedic relief through Dan’s voice.

Reading this as a mid-thirties woman without children, I found myself welling up at the café as I ferociously paged through those early, dark days. Enever’s prose hones in on emotions in a way that makes them accessible to all readers. She showcases the detachment of survival that competes with the shutting down of grief.

“I’m in limbo, paused between the past and the future. Dan is in limbo, drifting between life and death. I feel like there are two of me; the puppet version of me standing, looking like a real person, and other me locked inside, with eyes closed, breath held, trying to hold onto one moment forever so nothing ever moves forward again.”

Here is the novel’s universal conflict—the perceived need to be constantly moving forward as grief grips onto us, temporarily holding us in periods of stasis. While I can’t know the loss of a child, the memoir speaks to other areas of grief I’ve experienced—having lost a loved one with no preamble and no warning. Enever’s vulnerability generates a sense of solidarity and being seen. In the year after Dan’s death, Enever deftly encapsulates the strange quality of time and solitude that follows loss.

“Minutes drag, and hours pass in a blink. I don’t want company anyway. Messages of love and support are still coming through, ping ping ping. Everyone else’s grief is hard to bear. I can’t tie up in my mind all that’s happened in the last few days. This is shock and it hums in my ears.”

Bereaved parents and those experiencing grief may relate to this sense of prostration in the wake of loss. And while I personally related to Enever’s raw openness, the novel makes no claim to be the answer to grief. In her memoir, she recognizes that friends and family manifested their grief in unique ways and she highlights the various ways to mourn. Despite their differences, however, those close to her all find small comforts in celebrating Dan’s life. That’s what this novel is at its core. A small comfort, a celebration, and a resource for fellow bereaved parents.

While there’s no denying the heartbreak in this memoir, there is also hope. Dan and Enever shared many conversations about organ donation during his life because of friends who needed, and successfully received, transplants. So, when the time comes to decide, Enever knows she isn’t deciding for Dan, but rather, ensuring his resolution to donate is fulfilled. She expresses this to the doctors to which Dan’s voice replies, Dead right, Mum. When Enever is allowed to enter his room prior to the procedure, she reminisces on his athletic life. Namely she reflects that instead of preparing for a bronze medal Dan’s keeping his organs healthy and preparing to pass on life. For that Enever expresses, “I’m so proud.”

There’s no mistaking this is Enever’s journey, but Dan is a main character, too. During her first year of grief, each chapter is labeled by the days since the accident. In contrast, when we experience Dan’s life, the chapter headings highlight the people, places, and events they experienced together. It’s these past chapters where Dan’s voice brings comic relief and comfort. In this way, the novel’s structure allows the reader to dwell in the darkest moments before being pulled into the bright joy of Dan’s childhood. Through the memoir’s braided narrative, we gain an understanding of his character—how curious he was as a child, how he loved to drink milk even as a teen, his obsession with United (affectionately considered the wrong football team according to Enever), and how caring he was. “He put in the love, and it came back multiplied” and maybe that’s what we should take from this novel, a message of love, of memory, of hope.

Of how Dan’s light shines on.

Sun was a strong spirit, fierce and bright. Effortlessly, he drew attention to himself in a moment’s notice. It helped that Sun was tall, large, and handsome. Sun hunted, fished, and prepared the skin and meat with ease. The power Sun held brought Mars, Venus, and the rest of the village to him.

No matter where Sun went or what Sun did, the village watched him. He felt eyes on his broad back as he walked the dirt path to his hut. Sun didn’t abhor the attention. It was a pleasure to be depended upon and seen as a figurehead.

What wasn’t a pleasure was to be ignored.

Out of one hundred and sixty villagers, there was only one who never dared to look at Sun. Moon, the sickly sibling of the wonderful Earth. They were a pale imitation of their sister. Their lank hair was plaited into twin braids that flew behind them as they ran across the fields after Earth. Sun would watch the siblings from his hut and observe. Moon would stain their white clothes and whiter skin with the reddish-brown of clay and the green of grass. Sun would see Earth forced to spend the late evening hours washing the linens until they were clean from stains.

It angered Sun to see hardworking Earth break her back for the ungrateful Moon. Earth had no children of her own, yet she toiled over every chore the village had. She joined the men in the fields, the women in the animal pens, and the village in the kitchens. She sewed clothes for the children and repaired any holes they had made. Moon only added to the never-ending list of chores.

Sun had had enough. The fires crackled and the villagers chatted, but Moon still did nothing. He stood from his seat and set his hands on his hips. Moon, he called out, come and help me fetch fresh wood for the fires. Moon startled, staring at him. Earth murmured something and Moon reluctantly stood. Eyes downcast, they weaved their way over to Sun and halted steps away from him.

Come along, Sun ordered. He turned and walked to the edge of the woods. Moon’s awkward footsteps followed him. The woods were dark and still. Perfect for Sun to express his anger towards the useless Moon. He turned to Moon, grabbed their wrists, and yanked the wretch forward to crash to the ground. Sun pinned them and wrapped a hand around Moon’s throat. Squeezed as Moon kicked and scratched weakly. No sounds came from their throat as Sun crushed it. He strangled with a sick glee as Moon’s pale face turned red, then purple, then returned to a pale shade once more. Finally, Moon’s body was still. Lifeless. Sun released his grip and stood. Dusted himself clean.

It was done.

Ainsley Louie-Suntjens

House of the Dragon

I feel like I am the very last person to arrive at the party for this one, but I spent the better part of my summer blitzing through House of the Dragon. I resisted for so long— first, everyone and their mother was begging me to watch it and I refuse to cave to peer pressure, and second, the Negroni Sbagliato meme inundating my twitter feed annoyed me— but I gave in and pretended it was my own idea to save myself the embarrassment.  

I am sorry to announce that yes, it was as good as everyone said that it would be. I specifically need to highlight the two leading actors: Olivia Cooke and Emma D’Arcy positively disappear into their roles. The supporting cast is excellent, but the amount of electricity between these two could probably power a small homestead. I didn’t forget about Milly Alcock and Emily Carey either— the first four episodes are probably my favorite of all. The writing (of the first season at least) is fascinating, and it also fixed a lot of the writing problems of Game of Thrones, particularly the misogynistic ones— it makes me happy when writers take feedback. I will admit that the tail end of season two peters out a little bit and I know George R. R. Martin was really up in arms with how it was adapted, but to be honest, it is such compelling television that I don’t even really mind. George, this is for me, not you. 

Erxi Lu

Notes of a Crocodile

I discovered the existence of Notes of a Crocodile on Booktok of all places, but this novel transcends the formula that Booktok books tend to follow. Notes of a Crocodile is an almost painfully honest depiction of queer college students in 1980s Taiwan. The characters continually hurt each other, provide reprieve, and in the middle of consoling one another, seem to once again wound everyone around them. In complete honesty, I was unsure of how I felt about the book in the beginning. The main character is difficult to root for and the characters seem to love to dig themselves deeper into holes rather than out of them. And yet, all of a sudden, on page 99, I realized this book was beautiful. As much as I didn’t have the cultural framework to understand all the nuances in this novel, it became clear to me that this novel is also about the difficulty of growing up, the existence within the liminal space in-between childhood and adulthood, and the disorientation that comes from being pushed into a freedom that is not quite free. The novel is perfectly human, perfectly young, and perfectly broken.  

Lydia Layton

Adventure Time

It’s a cartoon classic for a reason. No matter the time of year, I always come back to Adventure Time; iconic, colorful characters, sapphic representation, and delightfully absurd storylines to brighten any day. Some of my favorite episodes include Astral Plane, Simon and Marcy, Jake the Brick, and BMO Noire.  

Skyler Boudreau

Even Though I Knew the End

I am always on the hunt for strange, fantastical books with great LGBTQ+ representation, and C. L. Polk’s award-winning novella Even Though I Knew the End fits into all those categories. I stumbled across this book accidentally and subsequently devoured it in a single afternoon. In less than 150 pages, Polk ripped my heart out of my chest and then stapled it back in place with one of the most bittersweet endings I have read in a long, long time.

Readers meet Helen, a magical detective operating in 1940s Chicago, three days before she is meant to die and burn in Hell for eternity—it’s the price she must pay for an old bargain with a demon made before the start of the story: her soul, to be collected in ten years’ time, for her brother’s life. While she’s not exactly at peace with her fate, it’s something Helen has accepted. However, in the days leading up to her death, Helen is offered a dangerous final job. Should she complete this job, she will be rewarded with the return of her soul and the chance of a long life with Edith, her loving partner. Helen’s chance of completing the job is slim, but it’s not an opportunity she can pass up.

Between an intriguing new magic system and one of the most well-written sapphic romances I’ve ever read, Even Though I Knew the End grabbed my attention the moment I picked it up and hasn’t let go since.

Parker McCullough

Challengers

Since its April release date, I’ve seen Challengers three times. It. Is. Just. That. Good. How can I describe director Luca Guadagnino’s masterpiece? Firstly, I must warn you that even though there is a racket in almost every scene, this is not a movie about tennis. Challengers is about the queer love triangle between Tashi, Art, and Patrick. As the film unfolds, you see each character’s flaws and what they sacrifice to get what they want. Patrick loves Art, Art loves Tashi, and Tashi loves tennis. The stakes are dramatically high throughout the film, only to passionately climax at the very end.

Something that has always amazed me about queer cinema is that there is effort in the details. There is a scene where the competition scheduler is eating a breakfast bagel from Dunkin’, and you can see the lipstick stain on her coffee cup as she shares half her breakfast with Patrick. Intimacy is placed in every scene that warrants a second and third watch.

The cinematography paired with the techno house-worthy score emerges in moments of action, giving you an electric feel, like when you’re about to step onto the dance floor. I have been playing the mixed version of the soundtrack all summer and will probably keep it in my rotation…forever. If you haven’t already, give the film a go! Challengers affirmed a knowing of my identity as a queer individual, but even if you’re not queer, who doesn’t love tennis?

Dominic Loise

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice

I have been looking forward to the sequel of Tim Burton’s original horror comedy Beetlejuice (1988) ever since I heard Seth Grahame-Smith was connected to the project. Grahame-Smith has a keen eye needed in balancing horror mashups as seen in his books Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. So, I was interested in him teaming with a visually-distinguished director like Tim Burton, and how the two creators would honor and build upon the original movie. 

The major theme of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice can be seen in the original cast members not brought back for the sequel. The main ghosts couple Adam and Barbara Maitland (Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis), who learn to share their home with the living in the first film, are not in the sequel because they’ve moved on. The theme of moving on is a through line in Beetlejuice Beetlejuice as characters deal with the grief of the both past and recently departed in their lives. Lydia Deetz (Winona Ryder), the teenager who could see ghosts and befriended the Maitlands, now has a teenage daughter (Jenna Ortega) of her own. The two have been estranged since Lydia divorced her husband, after which he soon died. The film also deals with the casting conflict of bringing back cancelled actor, Jeffrey Jones (Charles Deetz), by reuniting the remaining Deetz for the patriarch’s funeral. 

There wouldn’t be a Beetlejuice sequel without Michael Keaton reprising his role as title character, Betelgeuse. Keaton was so associated with the character that most people forget he was only in the original movie for under twenty minutes. Since then, there has been a Beetlejuice animated series and Broadway musical, which all spawned from Kenton’s original performance as “The Ghost with the Most.” In the sequel, Betelgeuse has not moved on from the first film and his love for Lydia Deetz. He has been haunting her in her nightmares and, as her real life toxic relationship gets more serious, he starts bleeding into the waking world. 

Characters being empowered to move on from toxic relationships and draw closer bonds to those who have provided safe spaces of healing is why I’m recommending Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. The living characters learn to exorcize the harmful relationships they’re in with manipulative people. Even the trickster Betelgeuse is on the run in the afterlife from his ex-wife, a soul-sucking ghost. 

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice hits all the looks and sounds of the first film while adding depth to its characters. I mention sound because not only is Danny Elfman’s score present like in the original film, but the creators worked in the famous Day-O score. And just when the moviegoer thinks there won’t be another ghost possession/lip-sync scene, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice pulls out all the stops with a song that ties the theme of loss and moving on together. 

If you’ve ever met one of our wonderful F(r)iction staffers, you’ll quickly learn that almost every one of them was once an intern in our Publishing Internship Program.

This program is run by our parent nonprofit organization, Brink Literacy Project. While our publishing internships are a great way to get a crash course in the literary industry, they can often provide a path to what can become a long and rewarding professional relationship. For more information, please visit the internship page on the Brink website.

Ainsley Louie-Suntjens

she/her

Where is your favorite place to read? 

My favorite place to read is cozy in bed, in my room, with ambient lighting and lots of pillows and blankets. It’s even better if it is raining or snowing outside. A close second is on the beach in the sun. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead? 

After a little bit of anxious waffling, I would open it because I would regret it if I didn’t. Behind the door, I hope to find Wonderland, complete with talking cards and chess pieces and mad tea parties, but knowing my luck, I would find the Other Mother. Not that I’m complaining. That would be really cool in its own way. 

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual. 

I take my coffee double-double: two milks, two sugars. If I’m feeling fancy, I’ll add some chocolate or caramel syrup. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language? 

I think my favorite English words are “banshee” and “gossamer.” They’re really fun to say aloud and they are striking on the page. The way they sound remind me of an adagio on strings, and that sort of reminds me of ballet. I think they are also beautifully descriptive and create a whole compelling image in your head the minute you read them.  

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why? 

This is cruel question, but if I had to my one album is Preacher’s Daughter by Ethel Cain and my one book is The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Preacher’s Daughter poignantly and rendingly explores the horror and triumph of womanhood, love, devotion, and rage, and I think to some extent, The Bell Jar does too. I could listen to these songs and read this one book over and over, and still get something new out of it every time. 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be? 

I would create more properly paying entry level jobs. On a fiscal level, it isn’t the most realistic of ideas, but it is so difficult to get into publishing if you are working-class. So many people have such a hard time getting into the industry just by virtue of the fact most entry-level positions are unpaid volunteer jobs, and it is hard to justify doing such work if you don’t already come from some degree of financial privilege, or at least stability. In turn, it can shut out the people who need to be heard most urgently in this industry. It is a self-perpetuating cycle that I would like to break. 

Erxi Lu

she/her

Where is your favorite place to read? 

I love reading in the quiet. In a more physical sense, I enjoy reading on my blue bean bag and feeling myself sink into both the ground and the words on the page.  
 
You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?   
At first, I would hesitate. What if the door leads to a dangerous path? Unbeknownst to me, my index finger would push the door open, and I would see a beautiful winding staircase with bookshelves lining walls that seem to extend forever above and below me. The staircase makes the universe feel unfathomably large, yet also comfortably small.  

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.   

No coffee! My favorite and most frequently consumed beverage is cold water from a refrigerated Brita pitcher peppered with ice cubes. I love chomping on ice!   

 
What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language?   

My favorite words in English are the ones that sound juicy, like bursting, slurp, and crunchy. There are just some words in English that are incredibly fun to say. I’m not sure if I have a favorite word in Chinese, but recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about words that are difficult to translate into English. For now, it is 心疼. 
 
You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?   
The album I would bring is 平凡的一天 by 毛不易. In English, the album is  An Ordinary Day, but also known as a Perfect Day in English. 毛不易’s voice is calming, as he equates normality with perfection and beauty. I think his calming voice would make the deserted island feel a little less deserted and lonely. I would bring  Imagine a Death by Janice Lee as my book. It’s a book I recently discovered last year and has the experimental writing style that I find to be delicious! 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

I wish there was a larger focus on experimental writing and playing with language, rather than “selling.” 

Lydia Layton

she/her

What is your favorite place to read?  

At the beach on a hot day, having just swam in the sea. Fresh air, and fresh perspectives—just right. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?    

I’d open it to find a vast, undiscovered planet of beauty and adventure. And the keys to a truck that’ll drive me anywhere I want to go while I’m there! 

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.    

A cappuccino in the morning (even better with a croissant), and a macchiato for afternoons; always taken with one sugar or less.  

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language?   

Synaesthesia. It has multiple satisfying repetitive sounds and describes a fascinating human phenomenon too.  

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?   

Pink Moon by Nick Drake would be the soundtrack to my island isolation. I hope, eventually, I could fashion a guitar from a tree and learn to play the tunes myself. A new hobby, and some great music to enjoy, all-in-one. 

And a book —The Picture of Dorian Gray —a strange, spooky classic. 

 
If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

I would challenge the assumption that the “average consumer” is most often not interested in abstract or complex ideas within literature. In many cases, individuals are interested in learning but disadvantaged by their lack of educational opportunity. When narratives are written with accessible communication in mind, simple stories can be infused with big ideas and inspire intellectual and creative progress among people that otherwise wouldn’t have been exposed to them. 

Parker McCullough

he/him

Where is your favorite place to read? 

I like to read in the comfort of my bed after a hot shower with fresh, clean sheets. I tend to read right before bed, which is ideal for me. It helps me relax and regulate myself. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead?  

Honestly, I don’t think I would be in this situation. I’m not the type to hike up a winding mountain path. I prefer flat land and being securely placed on the ground at all times. Additionally, if I WERE to be in said situation, I probably wouldn’t open the door. What if there was an ancient wizard prepared to task me with my life’s greatest, most dangerous mission? I’d rather pass. The less I know, the better. Onward. 

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual.  

What was it that Hozier said about taking his whiskey neat and his coffee black? Not to brag about being dark and mysterious (it’s my Scorpio rising), but I have to agree with that line. I’m a no-frills type of guy. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language?   

I’ve never actually thought about this! I would have to say my favorite English word would be “queer.” It encapsulates so much but is simultaneously so vague. It’s like when you hear the word regarding identity, you can easily picture something or someone eccentric, out of the norm, unexpected, but you can’t quite put your finger on what exactly it is. I love the room for nuance and indefiniteness the word invites. It creates space for interpretation, because to me as a nonbinary person, nothing is ever black and white, one thing or the other. My favorite word in another language is “muyè.” It is Haitian for “mother.” I first heard the word while mixing a song called “Muyè” by Keinemusik. I urge you to play the song and go where I went while listening. 

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why?  

The one book I would have would be the Holy Bible. I tend to read it when I feel lost or uncertain and being on a deserted island might guarantee those emotions. The one album I would have would be Blonde by Frank Ocean. That album is 100% playback-worthy and helped me come into my queerness. 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be?  

I would seriously change the literary industry to be more inclusive to BIPOC, queer/trans, and low-income individuals. We need to level the playing field. White, privileged, able-bodies tend to get priority and access to these amazing opportunities. Many minorities, including myself, are not privileged enough to drop everything and move to New York with my parent’s trust fund in hopes of landing that dream internship that is unpaid. I grew up in the south side of Dallas, Texas. Statistically speaking, I was never meant to break away from the generational trauma of my family and bloodline, escape to Chicago, graduate with my MA in Humanities from the University of Chicago, and begin my dream internship. I am structurally meant to fail. However, I overcame the systematic struggle to get to this point, and I did it all on my own, without much financial support from my family or society. I have come to believe that I am some sort of anomaly, the exception to the rule, much like very few others. This is why I care so much about giving back to the communities I come from. It’s a shame that the literary industry is not more inclusive in giving opportunities to underprivileged/QT black and brown voices because we have so much to offer, so much to give. It is truly a well of untapped talent and skill with a valuable, unique perspective on literature and writing. All it takes is for someone to give us a chance. 

Skyler Boudreau

she/her

What is your favorite place to read? 

My favorite place to read is in my bed next to my window curled up under a blanket. If it is raining outside, that’s even better. 

You’re walking up the side of a mountain along a winding, wooded path. You look to your left and discover, by chance, a door in the side of the mountain. Do you open it, and if so, where does it lead? 

If I found a door in the side of a mountain, I would have to open it because I would spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been behind it. Hopefully, the door will lead me to the ancient, magical library in Erin Morgenstern’s novel The Starless Sea, and not into the lair of a disgruntled dragon. 

How do you take your coffee? If you don’t drink coffee, describe your favorite beverage ritual. 

One of my favorite beverages is lemonade, specifically the lemonade made by The Teatotaller, the best café in New Hampshire. I love spending summer afternoons drinking their berry-flavored lemonade and playing board games with my friends at our favorite table. 

What is your favorite English word and why? Do you have a favorite word in another language? 

My favorite English word is “discombobulated,” because it concludes some of my favorite sounds in the English language. My favorite French word is trente-et-un. It means thirty-one. I love the way it rolls off the tongue! 

You’re on a deserted island. You have one album and one book. What are they and why? 

If I were stranded on a desert island with one album and one book, I would have to choose Hozier’s Unreal Unearth album and When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill. All of Hozier’s albums are excellent, but Unreal Unearth is especially dear to me because I am fascinated by the way each song on the album comes together to paint an overarching story. When Women Were Dragons is a beautiful, but rage-inducing novel that reveals a new theme each time I read it. Between When Women Were Dragons and Unreal Unearth, I think I will be kept entertained for a while! 

If you could change one thing about the literary industry, what would it be? 

I think the literary industry has made several positive strides over the past few decades. However, there is still a long way to go. If I could change one thing about it, I would make the literary industry more representative of its audience. There are a lot of important stories that still need a chance to be told.