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Drummy’s debut collection, Perdido, takes the reader through physical and emotional landscapes, revealing the bittersweet beauty of our real and metaphorical deserts. The backdrop of human loss sits behind the comforts that remain: the places we’ve been, the memories we hold, our loving relationships, and hope’s constancy glimmering at the edges.
Inquisitive and morbid, this body of work breathes new life into the corpse of Anna Morandi Manzolini, a woman largely forgotten by the march of time. Militello preserves Morandi Manzolini’s cadaver with the utmost precision, refusing to let the world forget her and all women alike who have persisted in the face of systemic gender injustice.
Getting drunk on Shirley Brewer’s words, binging on her rich imagery and drinking in her joyous perspective are truly the bacchanalian treats offered by Goddess of Swizzle.
Though Bring Us Home From Sorrow is a book that moves through death and deep grief, it is expansive and even in its darkest moments, uplifting. It reminds us that none of us are alone – that we are all held in our grief by the communities we belong to and the unique forms of grief and love that everyone experiences.
The plot is simple, but in Collette’s hands, and Anderson’s translation, the prose soars, delivering shimmering men, women and children caught in a never-ending cycle of labor in fields. Hope rises and falls. And while love is a luxury, it’s as seeded in the novel as the seeds the farmers plant in their fields.
Golden Armor by Armenia Qyqja, a full-length poetry collection of a 111 pages, is an empathetic, ingenious, heartfelt, and passionate manuscript full of feministic candor, by an Albanian poet, showing readers how and what it means to stay alive mentally, physically, and emotionally during and after war.
The book focuses on what could be considered the walking wounded, if it weren’t for their respective nuances and depth, along with surprising turns of humor. The stories are marked by the shadow of a singular, mostly unspoken, ‘tragedy’; however, the collection notably avoids the trap of victimization despite the cataclysmic proportions of its world.
It may take readers a moment to adjust to that narrative form, but the immediacy it provides is worth it. It’s a history and a conversation, the kind where you leave what was behind and move into the present state of what is. Interior reckoning goes a long way and is itself a form of migration, maybe even another form of death in the father’s and daughter’s struggle to align identity with a self in a foreign land.
One of the book’s strongest features is its straightforward structure. It doesn’t assume readers have business experience or a large budget. Instead, it walks through how to launch with minimal investment and begin earning quickly—framing early traction as a confidence-builder and a way to reinvest into the business.
The Meaning of Fear is not an easy novel, but it is a necessary one, particularly in today’s world. Readers will find a lot to unpack here and, without a doubt, gain insight into the ramifications of abuse. At the same time, fans of suspense are in for an adrenaline-charged ride, penned by a top-notch storyteller.