I’m home for winter break from college right now, so the picture right here is actually of my bookshelf at college. I filled about ⅔ of one shelf with all the books I wanted to bring with me from home: a mixture of my favorites in addition to books that I’ve yet to read but thought would be pertinent for my first year away from home.
My bookshelf is mostly poetry, some essays, two novellas, and two full-length novels. I like to think about my teenage years in terms of which poetry collection felt most formative for me at the time. In 2022, it was Hard Damage by Aria Aber, 2023’s was I Do Everything I’m Told by Megan Fernandes, and 2024’s was The Moon That Turns You Back by Hala Alyan. I know Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red is technically a novel written in verse, but I think of it as a poetry collection, so I’ll say that for 2025. There are other novels I love, too, of course, like James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room or Andrea Lawlor’s Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl (not on my shelf!), but I think I’m a writer who usually wants to talk more about poetry.
I associate a lot of my favorites with loved ones in my life, so for example, I’ve come to associate I Do Everything I’m Told with my friends Mimi and Andrew, both of whom also love Megan Fernandes’s work. I first read her brilliant sonnet crown “The False Beloveds with One Exception (or, Repetition Compulsion)” online in The Kenyon Review a few summers ago, and I just couldn’t get it out of my head. When I read and reread her poems, I also become obsessed with the orbits of devotion, distance, and the sense of wonder and charm that can lend itself to the messiest, most transitional periods in life.
One collection I always bring with me everywhere is The Year of Blue Water by Yanyi, which I first read in the fall of 2023 and have reread two or three times since then. It’s quite a short collection—being almost entirely untitled prose poems—but I recommend it to everyone I know and even pulled quotes from it for my Gender Studies project this semester. Dorothea Lasky’s Rome is one I read almost entirely in the waiting area of a Chinese restaurant in Richmond, Canada, and I read Hala Alyan’s The Twenty-Ninth Year in my favorite park, spread across a few days’ sunsets last June.
I love my book(shelf) collection at school partially because it fits into such a small space, partially because it’s the first thing I see when I exit or enter my dorm room, and partially because on top of it, I can set the Smiski figurines my friends have gifted to me over time. I don’t plan on buying new books anytime soon because I’m trying to take full advantage of my college’s extensive library, but I’m so grateful to have my own bookshelf-library that gets to stay with me through the years.
Ruoyu Wang (they/them) is a writer from Seattle. Their poems appear in Sine Theta Magazine, COUNTERCLOCK, and The Shore, and have been recognized by YoungArts, The Adroit Journal, and Narrative Magazine, among others. Currently, they serve as the Founding Director of the SUNHOUSE Summer Writing Mentorship and study Critical Race and Political Economy at Mount Holyoke College. They love linguistics, postcards, live music, and jasmine milk tea.
Knoxville, TN — The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present Poetry Xfit hosted by Shelby Hansen. This generative workshop event will take place on Sunday, June 28th, from 2 to 4 pm EST via Zoom. Join us at the link tiny.utk.edu/sundress with the password “safta”.
Poetry Xfit isn’t about throwing tires or heavy ropes, but the idea of confusing our muscles is the same. You will receive ideas, guidelines, and more as part of this generative workshop series in order to complete three poems in two hours. A new set of prompts will be provided after the writers have written collaboratively for thirty minutes. The goal is to create material that can be later modified and transformed into artwork rather than producing flawless final versions. The event is open to prose authors as well!
The theme for June’s Xfit is “Celebration.” Celebration doesn’t have to be loud or explosive–it can look like appreciation for the sun rising in the morning, the warmth of hearing from an old friend, or stumbling upon wildflowers on your walk. Whether your current celebrations are momentous or simple, let them find a home in your next poem.
Shelby Hansen is a creative writer and self-proclaimed fantasy maestro hailing from the northern plains of Texas. She recently graduated from the University of Tennessee’s English program with a focus in Literature and Creative Writing, where she won several awards for her fiction. Her writing often focuses on womanhood, identity, and the reclamation of the self through a speculative lens. This is reflected in her debut novel, which she hopes to publish soon. When she is not writing or teaching today’s youth, she enjoys reading, crocheting, swimming, and spending time with her two cats, Stella and Gemma.
For this installment of We Call Upon the Author to Explain, we had the pleasure of speaking with award-winning, author-illustrator Angie Kang about her children’s picture book Our Lake (Kokila, 2025). We dove deep into the nuances of her brilliant artistry and profound writing and got a sneak peek into her creative process. Our Lake redefines readers’ expectations of a picture book—with its heartfelt exploration of grief and impeccable symbolism, this is a book for readers of all ages.
Tassneem Abdulwahab: I wanted to start us off by talking about the color scheme. The contrast of the blue, yellow, and purple is spectacular—can you tell me more about why you chose these specific colors?
Angie Kang: First of all, I wanted to create a difference between the present and past. I wanted the past to feel like the sun is kind of beaming through Little Brother’s closed eyes as he’s remembering things—that’s the hot reds that you see there. Often the past is represented in sepia or muted colors, but in this story, the past is more vibrant because it’s literally full of more life. The colors in the past are a little more naturalistic and more comforting because their father is still there, whereas after he’s gone, the world is changed; the landscape looks stranger without him there. So in the present, the water is a little more purple, perhaps darker and a little less welcoming.
Also, I chose the colors of the brothers’ clothes deliberately: the Little Brother wears a red shirt, and Older Brother wears the same red hat that their father had—that red color becomes one that embodies the dad, so this way they both get to keep a part of him with them. There’s also a little red bird hidden in some of the pages, which I wanted to use to represent Father’s spirit. I chose his hat color first and the bird color second, though I recently learned a red cardinal is a sign of people’s loved ones returning to them after they’ve passed away, which was a very happy coincidence! Little Brother also carries this little teal-striped towel, which is the same teal as the water in the past, and that teal returns once more as a manifestation of Father’s laughter.
TA: You’re giving me great jumping points! The hat felt like such a central object in the narrative; it’s there with us throughout the journey, and on the last page, the perspective makes it seem like the hat is almost watching over them. Can you tell me more about its symbolism in the story?
AK: I’m so glad you noticed that! This hat is definitely a stand-in for Father, and I also wanted it to feel like an emblem of all the responsibilities of being someone who takes care of family. Because Father gives Older Brother his hat, he has also symbolically passed on his duties of care to him. Older Brother brings the younger brother to the lake, encourages him, and models the rituals of diving. I wanted Older Brother to seem as though he had everything handled in the beginning of the story while he has this hat on, but then when the brothers are both in the lake and Older Brother has shed the hat, he becomes more physically and emotionally vulnerable. There’s this moment at the end of the book where Little Brother recognizes Older Brother’s grief too, and we see them both being a little bit more emotionally open. Just two kids trying to figure it out together.
I think the beautiful thing about a hat is that it keeps the shape of a human head. It shows a lack. Even when it’s on the ground, we sense that Father is truly looking over them. At one point, his hat was so intimately molded to him that now the shape of it preserves his presence, even in his absence.
TA: Your writing is wonderfully authentic with lines like, “His smile is crooked, as if half of him is happy and half of him is not.” Can you tell me more about the way you’ve approached writing about grief for such a young audience?
AK: It’s interesting because this book initially began as a poem I had written while looking at a painting by Milton Avery, as a part of an ekphrasis practice. I think the important thing was that I wasn’t writing for children, at least initially. I’ve always been interested in children’s literature, but I think there’s a switch that can happen when I sit down to write for kids: I’m often trying to write what I think a children’s book sounds like. I’ve written many failed manuscripts that way, but because I started the first draft of Our Lake in a place for myself and for adults, I stayed in this register where I was able to meet kids where they’re at. They’re so much more brilliant than folks give them credit for. There’s this Maurice Sendak quote where he says: “I don’t write for children. I write and someone says it’s for children.” I feel a real kinship to that. I also try to make emotions felt with familiar language used unfamiliarly as opposed to what might be unfamiliar language to kids used correctly.
TA: Do you write with the parents also in mind, seeing as they’re the first consumer of your books?
AK: Honestly, not really. If I have them in mind, it’s only because I think that picture books are for everyone, and I hope that it reaches both children and adults. I feel like in many ways I’m writing for myself as an adult but then also writing for the child nestled within myself. I also deliberately try not to think about how people might read two young boys going off to this dangerous location by themselves because I think there’s a different logic to picture book narratives where children are allowed more freedom. Here, the ordinarily dangerous situation might allow for processing and understanding the real emotional impact of grief as opposed to a literal portrayal of two kids diving off a high point by themselves. I always try to prioritize the children’s emotional landscape over a literal one.
TA: Speaking of landscapes, why did you choose the lake as the setting? Is there a significance to the setting being a body of water?
AK: I have to admit that I just love painting water! I think there’s so many different ways that you can approach the surface of it and what goes underneath. And water just has so many symbolic qualities—there’s the literary idea of rebirth, and catharsis through tears. And water holds onto things—literally, through surface tension. When you exit the water, it almost feels like it doesn’t want to let you go, which also plays into themes of grief and comfort. It’s very powerful to me to imagine all the memories held in the basin of a lake. Also, the climax of the story is when Little Brother sees the reflection of Father in the lake. I love that you can both look at water as a surface but then enter within, so in that way, Little Brother was diving into his father’s embrace after he “sees” him.
TA: Going back to details, I noticed this beautiful Polaroid of Father, Little Brother, and Older Brother on the imprint page. Was that a detail you simply wanted to add or does it have a particular significance?
AK: I actually added that in the end because I felt like I wanted to see the three of them all together in another image. We see the three of them when they’re younger in a memory, but I think there’s something charming and real about the Polaroid feeling awkward and cut off in the way that happens sometimes when children are taking pictures. I loved that the art director Jasmin Rubero placed the Polaroid across from the previous page, where Father isn’t there (only his hat is), but the text says they’re all in the lake together.
TA: Seeing as this is a picture book, do you ever find yourself deciding to convey a portion in illustration instead of writing and vice versa, and how do you achieve that balance?
AK: That’s a question that’s at the heart of picture book making! People tend to think that the illustrations just repeat what the words are saying, but the art is essential in telling another part of the story. I am definitely always trying to consider what goes in the words vs. what goes in the images. Sometimes I’ll consider the words finalized, but then as I’m sketching, I realize that actually I want to paint it. Then I have to change the text, so it’s not redundant.
I also think of choosing the moment to illustrate as finding the right freeze frame. If the words are describing a moment that’s ten seconds long, you can drag an imaginary slider across those ten seconds and find which moment is the best. For instance, in the spread where Little Brother is diving into a lake, I had sketched out Little Brother hitting the water because I was responding to the part of my text which says he slips neatly into the lake. But then I decided to save the contact of the water for Little Brother’s climax of the story so that we get to experience catharsis along with the character whose interiority we’re following. Since we’re in Little Brother’s point of view, I also wanted us to see him watching Older Brother.
The nice thing you can do when you’re the author-illustrator is the flexibility of choosing what parts to illustrate vs. write.
TA: “Now, I’ve become an arrow the way Father taught me” really grabbed my attention. Why did you use the arrow in particular as a metaphor for the moment Little Brother dives?
AK: I just like the idea that arrows fly, and because when he dives, he becomes sharp and targeted, like an arrow finding its mark.
TA: Even though this is very much a 2D medium, illustrations like the one where Little Brother is standing on the edge of the cliff feel very visceral. How did you achieve that effect?
AK: I’m really glad you responded to that one! Even though the text says, “I inch forward until my toes meet the edge,” I needed to negotiate what was literally shown and what wasn’t. I was trying to draw him literally at the edge of the cliff at first until I realized that feels really dangerous to me as a viewer. Instead, I chose to represent his headspace—he feels like his toes are at the edge even though he’s really not that close to it. How he feels is what’s important, and the dramatic perspective adds to that psychology of him feeling like it’s super far away from the water, even if maybe in reality it’s not so distant after all.
TA: I’m opening the floor to you—is there anything you really want to to speak about that I may have not noticed?
AK: You’ve noticed so many thoughtful details, and I’m so grateful that you spent so much time with the book and read it so closely. It’s like that quote in the movie Ladybird, where when you pay attention to something, that’s a form of love. I feel like you showed a lot of love and attention to this book, so I really appreciate it!
TA: Are there any upcoming projects we should be on the lookout for?
AK: I illustrated a book called Navigating Night (Anne Schwartz Books, 2026) that just came out. It’s written by Julie Leung and it’s about a girl and her father who deliver takeout food together at night. The girl is her father’s translator and navigator, and she gets frustrated at not being able to be a “normal kid.” Throughout the night, the father tells the girl a bit more about his past, and they eventually reach an understanding. It was a really fun book to work on, and I got to experiment with table-salt in my illustration process!
I also have my next author-illustrated title coming out next spring called My Grandma the Stranger (Kokila, 2027)! This one is very personal to me, and I’m excited (and nervous) to see how it’s received by the world and readers!
Angie Kang makes art in LA. She is the author/illustrator of OUR LAKE (Kokila) which received a Caldecott Honor, the Charlotte Zolotow Award, the Dilys Evans Founder’s Award, and was featured on “Best of” lists by NPR, Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, School Library Journal, Horn Book, and more. She is also the illustrator of NAVIGATING NIGHT, written by Julie Leung (Anne Schwartz Books). Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Believer, Best Small Fictions, and elsewhere. She is a 2026 Sendak Fellow, the 2024 Ezra Jack Keats Fellow at MacDowell, and was shortlisted for the 2023 Cartoonist Studio Prize. Find her at angiekang.net or on Instagram @anqiekanq.
Tassneem Abdulwahab is a writer, editor, and book reviewer. With a strong interest in culture, history, and psychology and a love for fiction, her writing often draws on one or more of these threads to tell character-centric stories. She earned her BA (Hons) Creative and Professional Writing from UWE Bristol and has been in love with publishing ever since. As an artist, she’s most fond of oil painting and has sold several pieces over the last few years. In her free time, you can find her experimenting with new artistic mediums, researching for her next painting, or going down historical rabbit holes. You can read some of her writing on her Substack.
A personal narrative on the difference between two members of a family who experienced migration to the US differently, based on intergenerational and linguistic gaps. The first-generation American experience and the immigrant parent experience is explored by Meryem Rabia Uzumcu.
Meryem: Hibiscus flowers with bright fuchsia stamens, my brother’s eyes glued to Crash Bandicoot on his PlayStation 1, and Assad’s treacherous deployment of rainbow BB pellets on the Al-Maroosh compound paint my first childhood memories. And in the backdrop is probably my sister singing along to Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle.” Long days of playing in the hot Saudi sunshine were never interrupted by snow or rain. The compound walls gated the out- side world from our meadowy utopia equipped with a pool. What more could I ask for? But life in Saudi Arabia was different for my mother.
Mother: Saudi Arabia was hard for me. I feel that I [was] kind of in prison.
Meryem: Granted, being a child is very different from being a grown woman in Saudi. But sometimes, it feels like this apple (me) fell in a completely differ- ent country from its tree.
Mother: I [was] born in Diyarbakır, Turkey . . .
Meryem: For first-gens like my siblings and I, there’s not only a generational gap, but a cultural difference from our parents. After Saudi, when we moved to Washington, these girls on the bus gave me these Britney Spears cards, and her belly was showing, and then I showed them to you, and you made me rip them up and said, “You’re not like those girls.”
Mother: Yeah I don’t remember, but probably I did it.
Meryem: My mom always tried to insert her values into our upbringing, and sometimes we really saw the world differently than one another.
Mother: You have your own culture, you have your own saturations, you have your own beliefs. You just wanna keep it. [Arabic music plays in the background]
Meryem: To do this interview with my mom, we went to Rutgers gardens at our alma mater’s campus. She graduated in 2006 when she was forty-six, and I almost ten years later in 2017. Every spring, we smell our way through this flowery passageway formed by the lilac trees’ first bloom in mid-April.
Mother: This is, little corner of the heaven, kind of. It’s so beautiful.
Meryem: The hum of Highway Route 18 is in the background. And even if it smells like heaven, we’re still in New Jersey.
Mother: Ah, it smells strong too. I’m speechless.
Meryem: She’s speechless, which is the opposite effect I want the interview to have. So we move away from the magical waft of pink and purple lilacs and toward the gazebo. [Her mother sits and sighs] It took me a long time to understand her reasoning that told me to rip up the Britney Spears cards.
Mother: Maybe you understand now, but maybe not that time.
Meryem: For a long time I thought she was doing it because she didn’t get America. Most immigrants relate to America through the cliché of the American dream. I wondered what my mom thought of her own immigrant experience. Why did you move to the United States?
Mother: My husband got a scholarship to come to the US to do his PhD. And we moved. So I stopped working, I stopped my education to come to the United States. When I came here with a baby, I didn’t have any language skills.
Meryem: My mom took an almost ten-year break from school to learn a new language and raise three children. Meanwhile, she was following her hus- band’s career around the world, which is how we ended up in Saudi Arabia in the first place. When we moved to New Jersey, my mom enrolled at Rutgers.
Mother: My journey started in college with the three kids. If there is a will, there’s a way. I believe in that, and I never underestimated the small things that I achieved. I go forward and that’s it. I just think what I am going to do in my life.
Reynolds: Your mother is very goal oriented. That’s the impression I got, she has a sense of direction and she’s going in that direction, and she is very serious.
Meryem: That’s Rebecca Reynolds, she’s a dean at Rutgers University.
Reynolds: And she wanted to figure out how she could register for classes.
Meryem: With her help, my mother was able to graduate with a bachelor’s degree in public health, and it didn’t stop there.
Mother: I want to become a physical therapist, I don’t know why. Maybe because I have personal injury in the back, but the operational therapy suited me more. I was searching what school fits me more, and I found that Columbia is a good option. I said, you know, “I’m going to apply to this school and see what happens.”
Meryem: Considering all of her challenges along the way, my mother completed her second degree in occupational therapy at an Ivy League school. I still wonder if she related to the ultimate cultural cliché. Do you feel like you have achieved the American dream?
Mother: People come to the United States for opportunity, but I had everything in my country. My story is a very opposite one. I left my dreams. I received support later on, you know, people like me around me, and from Turkey people sending me letters all the time. When I went to check my mailbox I found five letters, so I was happy that day.
Meryem: The truth is, it’s hard to pin anyone down to simple clichés. Turkey was this faraway place that was still intimate and important for us to recognize in terms of language, culture, and most of all, values.
Mother: I never think that I can totally erase my culture. This country is a totally different cultures, combinations, everyone in their home, they’re living their own culture.
Meryem: To my mom, American culture was not about assimilation but establishing her own values here, and having the freedom to do that.
Mother: Being different is not too bad that I made the space, sometimes it’s a positive thing actually for society. I think it takes time until you get your confidence and you know what you’re doing, and then you say, “Oh okay, it can be like this way too.”
Meryem: And at home, she enforced that being different—our culture—was the norm.
Mother: When everyone else is against you, I feel stronger. [laughter from both]
Meryem: Growing up, I thought my mom’s values were a little overbearing. Until I went to college and entered the real world, and unless you actually stand up for yourself, life is hard. My mom was standing up for her way of thinking and doing things while raising us. American or Turkish, her values reflected a life striving for self-actualization.
Meryem: Do you think we understand each other now?
Mother: I think so. How about you?
Meryem: I think I understand you.
Mother: You understand me?
Meryem: I think, I don’t know.
Mother: You think I understand you?
Meryem: Do you think you understand me?
Mother: No, do you feel that way? [laughs]
Meryem: I’m just asking you.
Mother: Yeah, I feel that way, yeah I understand you. [both laugh] Now I’m asking you questions.
Meryem: In that moment, we were like two kids bashfully asking each other if the other would be her friend.
Meryem R. Uzumcu’s (she/her) practice of oratory storytelling undergirds her approach to feminist knowledge production between New Jersey and Diyarbakir. These sites remain particularly integral to her sensibility regarding Kurdish neural networks and archives. Currently her research and work receive support from the doctoral program for Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Rutgers University, the Institute for Research on Women at Rutgers, and the Mellon Foundation.
Holly Mason Badra (she/her) is the curator-editor of Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora. She received her MFA in poetry from George Mason University, where she is currently the associate director of the Women and Gender Studies program. Her poetry, essays, reviews, and interviews have appeared in Meridian Magazine, The Arkansas International, The Adroit Journal, The Northern Virginia Review, Foothill Poetry Journal, The Rumpus, CALYX, So to Speak, Circumference Magazine, Asymptote Journal, and elsewhere. She has been a panelist for OutWrite, RAWIFest, and Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here as a Kurdish American poet. Mason Badra reads for Poetry Daily.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present “Look / Mira: Latinx/e Ways of Looking in Poetry & Prose” a workshop led by José Angel Araguz on Wednesday, June 10th from 6:00-7:30 PM EST. This event will be held over Zoom. Participants can register for the event for free here!
This 90-minute generative workshop invites participants to explore the act of looking at both cultural inheritance and creative practice. Drawing on Latinx/e writers who re-frame the gaze, we’ll examine how looking and being looked at are shaped by language, place, power, and memory. We’ll read short excerpts from poetry, creative nonfiction, and hybrid works that re-imagine observation as resistance, remembrance, and recognition.
Through guided discussion and low-stakes writing prompts, we’ll experiment with how our own ways of looking (familial, spiritual, political) can become generative ground for new work. Open to writers of all levels, the workshop encourages a porous approach to genre and centers communal reflection and craft curiosity. Participants will have the option to share aloud and will leave with drafts and revision pathways.
While there is no fee to participate in this workshop, those who are able and appreciative may make donations directly to José Angel Araguz via Venmo at @Jose-Araguz-1.
José Angel Araguz is the author most recently of the lyric memoir Ruin & Want (Sundress Publications) and the poetry collection Rotura (Black Lawrence Press). He is an Associate Professor at Suffolk University as well as a faculty member at large for the Solstice Low-Residency MFA Program. He blogs and reviews books at The Influence.
First you must gather the objects. Open the polish and polish each object until every object is coated in polish, a thin film that takes on the shape of the object. Then dissect every object with a circumstantial blade. When the object is fully dissected, remake it, but more in your image. Then use concise scissors to prune the object, removing what wilts or yellows. Turn up the object sound. Then, dissect again. Hold each piece to check for resistance: if it withers, it’s an object. If it shudders, it’s a subject.
Holly Mason Badra (she/her) is the curator-editor of Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora. She received her MFA in poetry from George Mason University, where she is currently the associate director of the Women and Gender Studies program. Her poetry, essays, reviews, and interviews have appeared in Meridian Magazine, The Arkansas International, The Adroit Journal, The Northern Virginia Review, Foothill Poetry Journal, The Rumpus, CALYX, So to Speak, Circumference Magazine, Asymptote Journal, and elsewhere. She has been a panelist for OutWrite, RAWIFest, and Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here as a Kurdish American poet. Mason Badra reads for Poetry Daily.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
The distances grow longer everywhere The eyes scatter everywhere The sounds searched for you everywhere Your eyes were found in the streets Covered with snow
Holly Mason Badra (she/her) is the curator-editor of Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora. She received her MFA in poetry from George Mason University, where she is currently the associate director of the Women and Gender Studies program. Her poetry, essays, reviews, and interviews have appeared in Meridian Magazine, The Arkansas International, The Adroit Journal, The Northern Virginia Review, Foothill Poetry Journal, The Rumpus, CALYX, So to Speak, Circumference Magazine, Asymptote Journal, and elsewhere. She has been a panelist for OutWrite, RAWIFest, and Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here as a Kurdish American poet. Mason Badra reads for Poetry Daily.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is from Honeymoon Shoes by Valyntina Grenier (Cathexis Northwest Press 2023).
Ecologue
What are this chaste the in-charge rose freshly longer stem short green thorns over potato vines the squashy shade slugs happy as lettuces dug lamps in big leaves staked in earth a cane trellis the trailed pumpkin yellow pods and green bulging sunflowers the tops of beans paths and arteries that’s my geometry to burst the threatening fruit ripe rampant anarchy of summertime the end of always week’s end a couple in the garden
ValyntinaGrenier (she/her) is a multi-genre artist living in Eugene, Oregon. She is the author of four chapbooks and one full length collection. You can find those books at Bottlecap Press, Finishing Line Press, Cathexis Northwest Press and various places where books are sold. Her latest poems and visual art can be found in Beyond Words Magazine, Beyond Queer Words, Cathexis, Querencia and Wild Roof Journal. You can find her, her visual art, and links to her work around the web at valyntinagrenier.com.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
Leah Browning’s Souvenirsfrom Another Life (Quiet Ocean Studio & Press, 2026) is the first full-length short fiction collection from the author, but the latest in a long line of chapter books, non-fiction, and poetry. With over thirty publications having originally featured many of the stories, this collection is an amalgamation of multiple years of work and dedication to the craft. At its core, the collection is a series of vignettes featuring life at its truest: in relation to others. From first loves to last days, the shutter closes on glimpses of parents, children, friends, lovers, and strangers as they navigate what it means to live a life.
In form, Souvenirs from Another Life is diverse. Its diversity is most evident in its inclusion of everything from full-length literary fiction to microfiction. The variation in the length, content, and perspective of each story maintains an engaging pace. With every page turned, completely new expectations are set. In theme, it feels almost voyeuristic, looking on at these faceless characters as they navigate the most arduous or joyous days of their lives. They have plain names and minimal physical descriptions, lending to that anonymity. We absorb these moments in singularity, often completely unaware of their backstory.
This book is the embodiment of the feeling when you are sitting at a cafe, sipping on your americano, when two best friends sit down at the table beside you. Just over the noise of the busy street, you overhear fragments of their conversation. One of them is breaking up with their boyfriend or dealing with a terrible landlord. You know you are eavesdropping, and you know you should not, but curiosity gets the better of you. That quiet thrill is what keeps you reading Souvenirs from Another Life.
In particular, the collection truly shines in its briefest stories. While the few plots that were linked were always fascinating, I found myself most struck by the ones that lasted a few mere paragraphs.
As I read on, I was particularly intrigued by the idea of absence. Without being able to sit with a character for very long, there is an intentional lack of intimacy between the reader and the narrator. You are being held at arm’s length by the form while Browning’s high stakes and distinct characterization pull you closer. But the less there is to know, the more room it gives for the reader to insert their own thoughts, beliefs, and interpretations. It invites an open dialogue, encouraging you to contend with the story and reflect on your own memories.
“If I had more time, I would have written you a shorter letter.” Often wrongly attributed, the quote can be traced to a philosopher, Blaise Pascal. During my undergraduate studies in Creative Writing, my professors often cited a similar idea. Series are easier to master than a standalone novel. A short story is painstaking. A poem is completely, utterly excruciating. A single sentence can torment you.
See, an excerpt from “WORLDS,” a story that, in length, was under a page:
“But in the middle of the night, she’d lent me a toothbrush, and I’d watched her floss her teeth” (Browning 95).
In under twenty words, Browning masterfully presents setting, character, and action. Newness, uncertainty, and awe permeate the world of the narrator. There is an air of domesticity working in contrast to unfamiliarity. It is almost tangible. The cool night air, the white tiles, the silence. But all of that is there without actually being said. It is that absence that allows you to make a world feel whole without a whole novel to bring it to life. The story is colored by your own memory of longing. It is an invitation to reflect.
The intent of the collection is epitomized in the title story of the collection, from the point of view of an unnamed character:
“The photographs I found all over the apartment were proof that these things had happened: my courtship, my wedding, the birth of my child” (Browning 142).
At its most literal level, the narrator examines souvenirs of a life that was once hers but no longer is. We feel her grief, her regret, and her remorse. Many of these emotions permeate these stories, prompting the audience to use an insular moment to imagine a life that they are not privy to. Perhaps it even evokes nostalgia for former versions of ourselves. Times when we were still in love with that girl, living with our college roommate, or simply a time in which we did not understand heartbreak in the way we do now. The stories in this collection are steeped in sentimentality for life, in all its beauty and all its discomfort. It is an act of remembrance about what it means to be human.
The last line of the collection reads, “As she crossed the yard, Stacy had watched her, feeling the metal of the house key, warm against her skin” (Browning 220).
As we cross into the next chapter of our lives, may we always use Browning’s examination of memory as a reminder to look at our own souvenirs with grace and reverence for our past selves.
Reina Maiden-Navarro is an editor, writer, and photographer. She recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in Film & Media Studies and a minor in Creative Writing, cum laude. She also works as an Editor at Prompt and an Outreach Coordinator at Bookstr. If she is not reading or writing, she can be found traveling, painting, or baking cookies.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is from Honeymoon Shoes by Valyntina Grenier (Cathexis Northwest Press 2023).
Rub a Raw Slice Down the Middle or Modern Plants
My porch the limbo back when young leaves botched the ordinary harvest to garden the modified genetic why perfect the flame under blown out and understood suddenly to opt for the choice given a big bowl of home no doubt to tell them all of course we’re counting
on neighbors with Cheerios will ask made me smile well ask gave me fear Perfectly safe at the picnic though this obvious chance of water supper a beach invitation still the fireworks splay the way we work the middle slice up a raw cleave sticking keeping me that is
methodically untouched Thanking vacation the porch remained New leaves summer weeks late would you want let me ask Was there I press before a destination to select before a hint of the effect a new kiss gleans the same not simply
strong phenomenon of substantial equivalence that the asterisk pointed to as safe proof we could offer critique of a molecular avarice with tests/ scientists a safe potato has one machine metaphor bugs with evidently to kill to eat together
at The Best Bureaucratic-pestilence-wonderland a bit like the jurisdiction of eyes least/ lash/ regard Turned out freedom always assumed safety has been voluntary when the regulation /religion /surgeon of modified facts operates on me
ValyntinaGrenier (she/her) is a multi-genre artist living in Eugene, Oregon. She is the author of four chapbooks and one full length collection. You can find those books at Bottlecap Press, Finishing Line Press, Cathexis Northwest Press and various places where books are sold. Her latest poems and visual art can be found in Beyond Words Magazine, Beyond Queer Words, Cathexis, Querencia and Wild Roof Journal. You can find her, her visual art, and links to her work around the web at valyntinagrenier.com.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
