Review by Sally Shaw of "Under a Pink Sky" by Esther Ghey

Under A Pink Sky is a memoir written by Esther Ghey, that takes the reader into the darkest depths of growing up and an unimaginable death of a child. Ghey guides the reader back into the sunlight and a place of hope through action. 

The title puts Brianna at the heart of the book. Ghey recounts a  moment after the death of her daughter when the sky was a vibrant pink. "'Look!' I exclaim, pointing up. The sky is covered in a thick, undulating pink duvet. It is heartbreakingly beautiful. The slow-flowing canal looks like a strip of pink. Alisha, Wes and I hold each other a little closer. 'She’s here,' I say. 'I can feel her.' How did I know it was her? I really don’t like the colour pink - I used to try my best to get her to wear anything other than pink - but pink was not just a colour to her, it was a way of life. So of course, as with anything to do with my extremely determined child, she would  paint the sky pink, and not just any pink, a French Fancy pink, just to remind me who was still queen." 

As Ghey tells the story of her own teenage years, the effects of her mum becoming a foster parent and the relationship with her mum as a small child, then as a teenager, I found that Ghey was searching for an understanding of what has changed from her childhood to Brianna’s childhood. What makes this so difficult is that Ghey couldn’t find that understanding while Brianna was struggling with growing up and finding her place in the world. Ghey speaks honestly and frankly about her behaviour from the age of eleven, the role education played and the influence of older children. Ghey discovered that playing the cheeky-clown no longer made her peers like her once she moved into high school. "If the cheeky-clown act wasn’t going to work, I would mimic what I had seen at home. I knew how the tough kids talked and I knew the reaction it got. I would not be pushed and shoved in the hallways, so I started to act up. I talked back to teachers to disguise the fact that I couldn’t cope. I would do anything to hide my insecurity, but it really was all an act." As Ghey describes Brianna’s difficulties in school, she questions herself as to why she was unable to identify the similarities of how education impacted her and then her daughter twenty-five years later. 

As the story of Brianna’s life and death unfolds, Ghey tells it from her viewpoint, never assuming she can give Brianna’s opinion. I found her honesty about the mother and daughter relationship touched my heart and helped me understand the complex reality that teenagers find themselves in today. What became clear was the influences the smart phone brought into Brianna’s life and that these were impacting how Brianna saw herself and society. "At school she was relatively safe, but the real bullies were in her pocket. They would follow her into her room and into her head." These bullies take on many forms, but the one thing they all have in common is they lurk within social media. Ghey informs the reader of the dangers of social media, how these platforms are managed to ensure children become addicted. 

Along with the addictive power of social media, the content manipulates teenagers to think and act in ways that are harmful. The way this is achieved and the influences on Brianna and others are beyond the scope of this review. "When she emerged, it was TikTok Brianna, wearing her school skirt provocatively short, lots of make-up and a persona that was being built on social media but with which she strutted into school." This made me question what would Brianna be like without this influence; would she feel the same with different role models from peers, society and history? 

As Brianna moves further into her teenage years she constantly uses her phone, making self-care videos on TikTok, gaining many followers while retreating into her bedroom, led away from her family and friends by social media algorithms. At school the phone dominates her behaviour and her ability to take part in education. Ghey documents their journey through trying to gain support and answers. When Brianna texts her mum that she’s on a bus to meet a friend, Ghey describes why this appeared to be a positive step, unaware this would be the last text.

Through this book I have gained insight into today’s childhood or rather how that childhood is dissolving into the digital world, where your worth is measured by likes, followers and social media challenges. If a child doesn’t have a phone they’re a nobody, yet if they have a phone they’re in danger. Education becomes invisible and the breadcrumbs back to childhood have been devoured by influencers. The message that Ghey gives is we, as parents, siblings, family, friends and society, have to maintain hope through action and love. Ghey, through her organisation The Brianna Ghey Legacy Project, is campaigning for a phone-free education, as well as working alongside side other organisations campaigning to reduce the risks of social media. Under A Pink Sky is relevant to everyone and has educated me about the possible dangers held within my phone. 

 

About the reviewer
Sally has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson. She has short stories and poetry published in various online publications including the Ink Pantry, AnotherNorth, Roi Faineant Press. 
Sally lives in the countryside. 

Review by Julie Gardner of "Creative Writing and the Critical Commentary: Reflection, Influence, Process," ed. Karen Stevens and Jonathan Taylor

Anyone studying Creative Writing at undergraduate or post-graduate level is almost certainly required to write a critical commentary to accompany each piece of creative work they submit. The first time I was asked to provide one, whilst studying for an MA, I wrote a lot about the work of writers who had influenced me but hardly anything about my own output so I was (quite rightly) criticised. If I had read Creative Writing and the Critical Commentary first, I think I would have done better. There were no published anthologies of critical commentaries then, but editors Karen Stevens and Jonathan Taylor have produced a book that, in their words, "aims to address that strange pedagogical gap." This book will, I am sure, soon be on the reading list for most Creative Writing courses in the UK and beyond. 

Stevens and Taylor suggest that the world of Creative Writing is a mirror-world: "You learn to write – or learn to write better – by reflecting on your own work and the work of others. The mirror-world reflects both yourself and your (literary) surroundings, and you learn by studying those reflections, by staring into the mirror." I like this image of a writer staring obsessively into a mirror, rather like Snow White’s stepmother. I’m not suggesting writers are evil or vain, but we can be insecure and we need to be willing to look at ourselves (or at least our work) carefully, paying close attention to small details.

Part One, which consists of the first three chapters, jointly written by the editors, acts as a thought-provoking and useful introduction to the main part of the book. For those in the early stages of their writing career, particularly if they are following a formal course at university or college, there are useful lists of what might be included in a critical commentary, with questions to consider. 

Part Two provides the twelve sample critical commentaries and it is this section that gives legitimacy to the editors' claim that "there seem to be no other books like this one." The contributing writers "have experience as both published authors and educators in higher education," and "encompass, in both spheres, all the major forms of writing (prose fiction, creative non-fiction, script writing, poetry and new media)." Each chapter ends with "Works Cited," an extensive and eclectic list for further reading.

I wondered if it would be frustrating to read the commentary without first having access to the creative work, and there were times when it was. Ideally, I would have liked to have read Stevens’ short story "Among the Crows" before I read her discussion around it, but, like all the contributors, she provides quotes from the original work and information about the content. As I worked my way through the chapters (Stevens’ commentary was the first) I decided that these essays worked perfectly well as discrete pieces. I found that I was applying what I was reading to, and finding inspiration for, my own practice. As a poet I was especially interested in Shaindel Beers’ essay, "Nature and Chance as Poetic Influence" and Lily Matsumoto’s "Experimental Poetic Autography: Writing the Languaged Self," but every chapter offered useful insights. I particularly enjoyed David Swann’s "commentary-in flash" about his novella-in flash, Season of Bright Sorrow. Kit de Waal also writes about flash fiction, comparing it to parables from the Bible: "both forms invite readers to engage deeply with the subtext, relying on suggestion and resonance rather than explicit explanation."  Dan Powell’s contribution, entitled "The End Is Never Where You Think," introduced me to Preclosure Theory. His chapter included the final two paragraphs of his short story, "Not the Fall," and I am eager to read it in its entirety and interested to see how that reading is affected by my prior reading of the commentary.

Anyone who believes that there is a formula for writing a critical commentary will, on reading this book, find that they are mistaken. The twelve essays are all very different in style and tone. What they do have in common is the writers' willingness to share openly about their own work and there is something generous about this. These are, in effect, masterclasses. Without doubt the book will be extremely useful to those tasked with writing critical commentaries, but it has much to offer all writers and indeed to many readers.

Stevens and Taylor make a bold claim for the critical commentary: "If approached with the same thoughtfulness as the creative work, they are not only profoundly helpful to an author, they might also stand as works of art in themselves." This book provides the evidence to support that claim. 

About the reviewer
Julie Gardner is working towards a Critical and Creative PhD at Nottingham Trent University. Her poetry pamphlet, Remembering, was published by Five Leaves in 2024.

You can read more about Creative Writing and the Critical Commentary on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Christine Hammond of "Small Birds Singing" by Matthew Welton

Small Birds Singing gently canters across a city’s green spaces covering a twelve-month seasonal period from September to August. Observing and recording the everyday acts of life, stanzas comprise two lines typeset asymmetrically. 

Effectively, this brings structure and order to the sheer volume and apparent randomness of the content. Often, it is used to juxtapose what may seem mundane with a reflection that encourages the reader to a deeper level of understanding of our reliance on and interaction with the objects around us: Thinginess and Thinkiness as Welton describes it, as seen here in "October":

a woman in the doorway, holding her palm out into the rain
in each window of the apartment block, a tall yellow flower

           on my desk, the stalks of apples I ate yesterday
                in a curving brick wall, a curved wooden door

is it thought we return to 

or that the thought returns to us? 

           

           a curving line of mushrooms in the grass
                 pigeons on a flat felt roof

almost as we’re watching, the bunch of tomatoes becoming plumper
the heap of shabby mattresses behind the hotel

            the more sporadically we follow the path a thought takes,
                  the deeper the thinkiness we drag ourselves into 

Journeying through the seasons allows the poems to draw heavily on nature for context and placement of both the everyday acts and surrounding items that are the backbone of the collection. It is here that the gentle canter has potential to move into more of gallop inviting the bigger questions, as noted in March:

the shadow of a breeze blowing through the shadows of the branches
our faces fizzling from the frozen rain

                            two small crows on the rusty railings
                            a heap of compost twice my height

the unending mumble in the things of the world
resembles the mumble of the unending wind
                  
                            a magpie taking a twig from one tree
                            to add to a nest in another

among the worn-out daffodils the pale new primroses 
the table lamp topples

things muster themselves
to meet our attention

Small Birds Singing is an innovative, book-length poem full to the brim with everyday observations, occurrences, items and natural rhythms that make up the fabric of our human experience. The appeal is wide, particularly for artists, poets and readers who love to walk, record and reflect. 

About the reviewer
Christine Hammond began writing poetry while studying English Literature at Queen’s University Belfast. Her early poems were published in The Gown (QUB), The Female Line (NIWRM) and feminist publication Women’s News, where as one of the original members, she also wrote Arts Reviews and had work published in Spare Rib. She returned to writing again after a long absence and her poetry has been featured in a wide variety of anthologies including The Poet’s Place and Moment (Poetry in Motion – The Community Arts Partnership), The Sea (Rebel Poetry, Ireland), all five editions of Washing Windows – Irish Women Write Poetry, Her Other Language (Arlen House) and literary journal The Honest Ulsterman. She has also been a reader at Poetry NI’s Purely Poetry open mics in Belfast. Her collection Sojourn – Moments in Poetry is now available on Amazon in both Paperback and Kindle format. 

Review by Paul Taylor-McCartney of "The Walkative Revolution" by Alec Finlay and "Two Women in a Car Park" by Selima Hill and Moby Hill

  

Cornwall-based Guillemot Press specialises in carefully designed, often collaborative poetry editions. Alec Finlay’s The Walkative Revolution (2025) is an illustrated hardback combining poetry, visual composition and manifesto-like writing. Selima Hill’s Two Women in a Car Park (2026), with artwork by her son, Moby Hill, takes the form of a compact landscape volume. 

Finlay is a Scottish poet and artist whose work explores landscape, ecology, naming and access. When chronic illness constrained the poet’s ability to move through the world, he reconsidered what it is to walk, be a walker, or a "not-walker," and creatively adapt to limits. Hill is known for psychologically charged poetic sequences in which tenderness, menace and surreal transformation exist side by side. Although very different in form and tone, these collections share an interest in movement, stillness and thresholds: between participation and exclusion, intimacy and privacy, forward motion and rest.

The Walkative Revolution challenges a tradition in which walking is closely associated with freedom, independence and authority. Finlay’s statement that "a path must be walked / or it will cease to exist" presents movement not as conquest but as an act of maintenance. In essence, a path survives through repeated use, where walking becomes a relationship between bodies, landscapes and the communities that keep routes open. This idea is developed through the proxy walk, whose participants are described as "the walker, the recipient, the artist": a small cast list and a choreography of roles. One person follows the route, another receives the walk – as though by post, pulse or proxy – and a third turns the experience into artistic form, translating footfall into form and step into script. The encounter with landscape no longer belongs only to the body that physically covers the ground. Elsewhere, Finlay declares that "There can never be an excess of access." The line gives the collection’s politics a memorable directness. Access is not treated as an optional kindness or an adjustment to be added afterwards - a principle that changes the meaning of participation itself. The poet’s thresholds are therefore both physical and social: they include paths and boundaries, but also the assumptions that determine who can use them and whose experience of place is valued. I found the cumulative effect of motif, theme and manifesto – both lyrically and politically – reminiscent of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

In comparison, Hill brings movement and stillness into the more intimate territory of family, care and emotional knowledge. In "Happiness," a mother "wheels her large son in his wheelchair beside the stony / river, round the lake." She believes she is going "in search of their / happiness," but the poem quietly revises that expectation: "this, however, is their happiness." The journey around the lake has no triumphant destination; its meaning lies in the shared circuit itself. Happiness is not waiting at the end of the route or dependent upon some future change. It is already present in the act of accompaniment: in the movement beside the river and around the lake. In "The Body in the Bungalow," stillness takes on a more troubling quality. A man has been lying alone, "probably in pain." When a woman asks whether the pain might "not have been that bad," the doctor replies: "All pain is pain." The answer is simple but uncompromising. It marks a threshold in understanding: another person’s suffering cannot be reliably measured from the outside, nor dismissed as it is not fully visible. The final poem, "Unhappiness," also considers the limits of what one person can know about another. The speaker reflects that "All adult men have had their hearts broken" and therefore "he, too" must have experienced heartbreak, although "we don’t know how or when." The phrasing insists upon the son’s adult emotional life, while "we don’t know" protects his privacy. Hill implies that closeness and care do not give complete access to another person’s inner world.

The collections differ in their thresholds: Finlay’s are spatial and social, shaping who can participate, while Hill’s are psychological, marking the limits of knowing another person. Both resist the idea that freedom means constant forward movement. Finlay presents stillness as active and connected; Hill shows movement as circular and unresolved. In each, thresholds become places where agency, knowledge and relationships are rethought. What distinguishes these books is also the strength of their voices. Finlay’s inventive, concept-driven work reimagines access and place, whilst Hill’s compressed lyricism captures care, pain and intimacy without simplifying them. 

The books are also compelling as physical objects. Their visual and tactile qualities are not incidental but shape the pace and meaning of the reading experience. Finlay’s playful movement between poetry, manifesto and visual composition asks the reader to pause, adjust and approach the page in different ways. Hill’s compact landscape format, accompanied by some strikingly simple but haunting artwork, suits a collection concerned with circuits, boundaries and uncertain passages. Taken together, The Walkative Revolution and Two Women in a Car Park are two highly original contributions to contemporary poetry. They are the work of distinctive and compelling voices, but also beautifully conceived and produced books that reward close attention. 

About the reviewer
Dr Paul Taylor-McCartney is a writer, researcher and lecturer. His interests include dystopian literature, queer studies, children’s fiction and initial teacher education. His poetry, short fiction and academic articles have appeared in a wide range of print and electronic media, and fiction titles he recently worked on as commissioning editor have won regional readers’ and publishers’ awards. His debut novel, Sisters of the Pentacle, was published by Hermitage Press in 2022, and his first non-fiction title, Cornwall Uncharted: Mapping Cornwall’s Queer History of Concealment, Culture and Creativity was published by The History Press (June 2026), to great acclaim.

Review by Jonathan Wilkins of "The Cry of the Icemark" series by Stuart Hill

It is now twenty years ago that Leicester born-and-bred author Stuart Hill won the first ever Waterstones Children's Book Award with his epic novel Cry of the Ice Mark, the first of a series that has captivated readers since 2005 and has been reissued this year.

Stuart Hill’s Cry of the Icemark series, beginning with The Cry of the Icemark (2005), followed by Blade of Fire (2006) and Last Battle of the Icemark (2008), stands as one of the more distinctive contributions to early 2000s young adult fantasy. It blends high-stakes warfare, mythic alliances, and coming-of-age drama with an exuberant, almost folkloric energy. Across the trilogy, Hill crafts a world that feels both familiar in its medieval fantasy scaffolding and refreshingly idiosyncratic in its cultural detail, humour, and emotional sincerity.

The first novel introduces readers to Thirrin Freer Strong in the Arm Lindenshield, a teenage warrior princess thrust into leadership after the death of her father in battle. This is the novel’s core dramatic engine: Thirrin’s struggle to transform her small northern kingdom into a coalition strong enough to resist the technologically advanced Polypontian Empire. The premise is archetypal, but Hill’s execution is unusually lively. He populates the world with werewolves, vampires, giant snow leopards, warlocks, and forest elementals, creatures who are not merely decorative but woven into the political and emotional fabric of the story.

One of the series’ greatest strengths is its sense of cultural texture. The Icemark itself evokes a Scandinavian-influenced warrior society, while the Hypollitan people, Thirrin’s maternal lineage, draw inspiration from Amazonian myth. These influences are not subtle, but Hill uses them with affection rather than derivation, creating a patchwork world that feels mythic rather than derivative. The alliances Thirrin forges are not simple plot devices; they are opportunities for Hill to explore how societies with radically different values negotiate trust, honour, and survival.

The first book’s pacing is brisk, sometimes breathless. Hill’s background as a bookseller and archaeologist seems to inform his interest in mythic structures and heroic archetypes, but he writes with a modern sensibility. He occasionally uses contemporary language, calling Thirrin's father "Dad," for instance, which adds a slightly anachronistic charm to the otherwise medieval setting. Some readers may find this jarring; others can see it as part of the series’ playful tone. What is undeniable is Hill’s commitment to making Thirrin accessible. She is fierce, stubborn, and occasionally reckless, but her emotional arc, grief, responsibility, self doubt, and determination ground the fantasy in something recognisably human.

The battle scenes are a highlight. Hill’s prose is clear, energetic, and cinematic, military fantasy elements surprisingly robust for a younger audience: strategy, logistics, morale, and political negotiation all play meaningful roles. The Polypontian Empire, led by the formidable General Scipio Bellorum, is not a faceless evil but a disciplined, rational, expansionist force. This gives the conflict a sense of weight and complexity, elevating it above the typical good-versus-evil binary.

The second book, Blade of Fire, expands the world significantly. While the first novel is tightly focused on Thirrin’s coming of age and the defence of the Icemark, the sequel broadens the narrative to include her children and the long-term consequences of the alliances forged in the first book. The stakes grow more global, and Hill leans further into the series’ blend of mythic fantasy and military epic. The emotional tone deepens as well: themes of legacy, sacrifice, and generational responsibility come to the fore. 

The final book, Last Battle of the Icemark, brings the trilogy to a dramatic conclusion. Hill’s interest in large-scale conflict reaches its peak here, and the narrative becomes darker and more complex. The alliances that once seemed unshakeable are tested, and the characters, now older, more seasoned, and more burdened, face moral dilemmas that go beyond battlefield heroics. The trilogy’s ending is bold, emotional, and thematically coherent, reinforcing Hill’s commitment to portraying war not as a romantic adventure but as a crucible for identity, loyalty, and loss.

Across the series, Hill’s character work is earnest and often charming. Thirrin remains one of fantasy’s more memorable heroines: fierce without being one note, proud without being arrogant, and vulnerable without losing her edge. Her relationship with Oskan, the young warlock who becomes her closest friend and advisor, is particularly well drawn. Their dynamic, half banter, half philosophical tension, adds warmth and humour to the otherwise martial narrative. The supporting cast, from the dignified Snow Leopards to the decadent Vampires, is colourful and distinctive. Hill’s vampires, in particular, are a delightful departure from the brooding romantic archetype: they are aristocratic, sardonic, and bored, joining the war largely for entertainment.

Thematically, the series explores unity through diversity. Thirrin’s alliances are not merely strategic; they are symbolic of a world in which survival depends on cooperation across cultural, species, and ideological boundaries. This message feels especially resonant given the series’ publication era, and it remains relevant today. Hill also engages with themes of grief and remembrance. The first book is dedicated to his sister Kathleen, "the real Thirrin," whom he lost to leukaemia as a teenager. This personal connection infuses the narrative with emotional sincerity, particularly in moments where Thirrin confronts loss or fear.

Hill writes with exuberance, sincerity, and a clear love for mythic storytelling. The result is a trilogy that feels less like a polished corporate fantasy product and more like a heartfelt, imaginative saga told by someone who genuinely delights in the act of creation.

In the broader landscape of fantasy, The Cry of the Icemark series occupies a unique niche. It is less romantic than many contemporaries, more militaristic, and more rooted in mythic archetypes. It appeals to readers who enjoy epic battles, political alliances, and richly imagined cultures. It also offers something increasingly rare: a heroine whose strength is defined not by destiny or magical power but by courage, leadership, and the willingness to learn.

Ultimately, Stuart Hill’s trilogy is a vibrant, emotionally resonant, and culturally textured work of fantasy. It remains beloved by readers who appreciate its blend of myth, warfare, humour, and heart. For those seeking a fantasy series that balances epic scale with genuine warmth, and that celebrates the power of unlikely alliances, it is well worth reading.

About the reviewer
Jonathan Wilkins is 69. He is married to the gorgeous Annie with two wonderful sons. He was a teacher for twenty years, a Waterstones’ bookseller and coached women’s basketball for over thirty years before taking up writing seriously. Nowadays he takes notes for students with Special Needs at Leicester and Warwick Universities. He has had a work commissioned by the UK Arts Council and several pieces published traditionally as well as on-line. He has had poems in magazines and anthologies, art galleries, studios, museums and at Huddersfield Railway Station. He loves writing poetry. For his MA, he wrote a crime novel, Utrecht Snow. He followed it up with Utrecht Rain, and is now writing a third part. He is currently writing a crime series, Poppy Knows Best, set at the end of the Great War and into the early 1920s.

Review by Rebecca Nolten of "Yesteryear" by Caro Claire Burke

Yesteryear is unlike anything I have ever read. Rarely has a protagonist been so immediately, spectacularly unlikeable. Natalie hooks you through her sheer vanity and inflated ego, then drags you by the hair through the calamity of her life.

For you, dear reader, in picking up Yesteryear, have become one of the "angry women." As you devour this tantalising read, you become engrossed in a cocktail of disbelief, outrage, and Schadenfreude.

Natalie Heller Mills is a "tradwife" influencer who preaches about the glory days of knit-your-own-yoghurt traditionalism to her online fanbase, made up of seething "bad" modern women and envious "good" Christian wives. She does so while surrounded by her gaggle of home-schooled children and her good ol’ cowboy husband, Caleb. They live on Yesteryear Ranch — a haven of home-baked bread, organic American farming, Christian domesticity, and … a mega media machine.

Behind the scenes, there are nannies, producers, and immigrant field workers keeping this titanic ship afloat, all hidden from public view. Yesteryear Ranch’s success is accredited exclusively to Natalie, Caleb, and their supposedly secure, godly marriage – secretly marred by disappointing sex, deep-seated loathing, and an affair that threatens to destroy everything.

The Nara-Smith-of-it-all comes to a screeching halt when Natalie is inexplicably transported to the Pioneer days she so idolised.

It is 1855.

"This is my home. This is not my home" — Natalie finds herself on a ramshackle farm set against the same Idaho hills as Yesteryear Ranch. In this world, Natalie has four children: Maeve, Mary, Abel, and Noah. They are so reminiscent of her own, and yet they are not hers. "Old Caleb" completes the uncanny scene — a burly version of Natalie’s husband who works the land, breeds her "like a barnyard animal," and hits her when she disobeys him.

The novel flips back and forth between these two realities: the modern illusion of traditionalism — filtered through hate comments, internet fame, and carefully curated images — and the harsh, bare-bones existence of true traditionalism, with all its scrubbing, kneading, and inescapable boredom.

But Natalie fails to reach anagnorisis. In fact, as the novel progresses, she becomes enveloped — oddly charmed, even — by her new life. While she initially questions whether this is the work of time travel or some hellishly elaborate reality TV stunt, she eventually comes to believe that it is by Divine design that she is destined to live in this "authentic" world.

But what of the fame? The hunger for attention? The desperate need for an audience? That is the one thing that leaves Natalie wanting: to be perceived. Because if there is one thing her audience of "angry women" loves to do, it’s watch her.

Yesteryear’s sharp, bitter first-person prose tears apart the fallacies of the American dream, traditional gender roles, political messaging, the Church, and our online personas. It encompasses all of this without ever losing the reader’s attention, and as much as you may want to, you cannot tear your eyes away from the car crash that is Natalie Heller Mills.

A blisteringly funny and unnervingly perceptive debut, Yesteryear cements Caro Claire Burke as a voice to watch. I, for one, cannot wait to see what she writes next.

About the reviewer
Rebecca Nolten is a Modern and Medieval Languages graduate from the University of Cambridge (Girton College). She has worked across editorial, copywriting, translation, and arts publishing, with a particular focus on storytelling and visual culture. She is especially interested in translation, art history, and the ways in which stories move across languages, cultures, and media. Outside work, she enjoys illustration, reading, and visiting galleries and exhibitions.

Review by Sally Shaw of "Perfect Circle," ed. Rob Redman, illustrated by Lucy Scott

Perfect Circle, an illustrated anthology, is volume two in the Uncertain Stories series. The stories tell how life, happenings, folklore, beliefs and society move in cycles that may or may not form complete circles.

"Swineside" by David Frankel opens with "I have two mementos of my visit to Swineside: a photograph and a tape recording." Immediately I want to know what or who was in the photograph and on the recording. The photograph shows Mathew, Anne and Clara at Swineside. The protagonist is looking back on a significant time in his life. Frankel enabled me to visualise and feel the bleakness of Swineside. Mathew is wrestling with his younger-self: was he right to question the mental stability of his girlfriend Anne, due to the circumstances of her grandmother’s death? Should he have believed what was recorded on the tape or accepted what Clara said she heard? This is a story of the power of hindsight and maturity although it may not always have the answers.

"Triptych" by Eva Carson tells the story of an artist whose life’s work depicts the mountainous landscape of Scotland so much so it appears that she is possessed as her paintings always follow the same format, as if she’s trapped in a reoccurring nightmare. There’s a darkness to the paintings: something is lurking within the crevices of the rocks, "I will say that viewers almost always have the same reaction: fear, even a kind of disgust." Following the death of her mother, her daughter visits her mother’s biographer, Robert. When Robert dies six weeks later his documentation of interviews with her mother describe the place where she first encountered the mountainous landscape and a mysterious event from which she never truly escaped. Carson writes in a way that enables the reader to experience the chill of the uncanny happenings, and provides unexpected outcomes and twists. The closing line is fabulous. 

"Dead Man’s Hollow" by Kathy Hoyle is the longest of the stories and its placing within the book is perfect. "They built a skate park over Dead Man’s Hollow. We were dead chuffed. Nobody needed a reminder of the past, the councilmen said, not in this day and age." Whatever happened must have been long ago if adults were talking about it; it was as though by putting a skate park on top of the hollow it would keep the children safe. I sensed the threat of history repeating itself, and as the story is told the tension builds in this ordinary working-class community with an unspoken knowing. Hoyle has three main voices, The Boy, The Witch and The Worm. I like the way Hoyle titled each, they formed vignettes which provide clarity and heightened my anxiety with each ending, like scenes from a play. Hoyle’s microstructure provides a rhythmic flow, and at the climax I felt the panic of The Boy’s parents and aunt running towards him, while being chased. The terror was palpable. What I thought was going to happen didn’t, and an unexpected hero is burdened with a gift. I appreciated the use of local dialect, its authenticity and how it amplified the voice of The Worm. 

"The Watchkeeper" by Lauren O’Donoghue I read twice. Writing from the protagonist's viewpoint, O’Donoghue causes the reader to believe all is normal, at first glance, and then the reader sees the reality of what's happened. 

The narrator of "Date Night" by Lynsey May is a woman who opposes the eternal generational cycle of society’s opinion of what’s right for a woman. The woman is complex, her thoughts and actions projecting a feeling of the supernatural and danger. 

The book ends with "Perfect Circle" by Jo Gatford. I absolutely loved this story of knowing deep down the fragility of life and the cruelty of that one in a million chance. This is a wonderful and atmospheric human story. 

Perfect Circle was a joy to read, bringing to my mind that maybe sometimes acceptance of uncertainty will bring a sense of peace.

About the reviewer
Sally has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson. She has short stories and poetry published in various online publications including the Ink Pantry, AnotherNorth, Roi Faineant Press. Sally lives in the countryside. 

Review by Hannah Kimmins of "Ordinary Saints" by Niamh Ní Mhaoileoin

"The first time I kissed a girl, my brother died": Years after her older brother Ferdia’s tragic death, Jay has moved from her hometown in Ireland and is living in London with her girlfriend, trying to live her most authentic life without religious constriction. However, when her parents inform her that there’s a campaign to canonise Ferdia, she can no longer run away from her grief. What follows is a battle between her brother’s death and her own life. 

Ordinary Saints is anything but ordinary. It is a complex, messy yet measured conversation about the role of religion in society and how it can both bring families together and tear them apart. Jay could also be described by these three words: complex, messy, yet measured. The author never lets you get too close to her, which from my perspective is purposeful - you never fully sympathise with her, or her parents, or even Ferdia. You see all of their beauty and their flaws, and the debate becomes more about the role of religion from a micro and macro lens rather than the morals of the individuals, which helps the reader form their own opinion. The humans are at the heart of the story; not God. 

This is a truly special story, and a truly accomplished debut novel from Niamh Ní Mhaoileoin. Despite the main story being about sainthood, reading it felt overwhelmingly real - like it could happen to you, or a friend, or someone in your community. It also contemplated the relationship between queerness and Catholicism, succeeding in not pitching them against each other, but instead finding where they intersect. Once again, the reader is encouraged to form their own opinions on the characters and concepts within the novel. Do not be mistaken; this novel is not neutral. It has a voice. However, the reader is encouraged to have their own voice too. 

If you’re looking for an original story that will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page, Ordinary Saints is a modern gem that should not be missed. 

About the reviewer
Hannah Kimmins is a scouse writer and was a Waterstones bookseller for 7 years. She has been reviewing books since she was 15 years old, and continues to live and breathe books. She has a Masters degree in English and is graduating with a Masters in Psychology this year. More than anything else, she loves to learn. 

Review by David Keyworth of "Beyond the Page: Mary Shelley 175 Years On," with Andrew McInnes, Bradford Literature Festival, 6 July 2026

"There’s more to Mary Shelley than Frankenstein": this was how Dr Andrew McInnes concluded his talk at Bradford’s Festival Hub. He divided his slides into four main themes: Goth Queen; Mother of Science Fiction; Queer Ally; Contemporary.

He cited a range of evidence to suggest how Mary (1797-1851) was a Goth before Goths were invented. One rumour is that she and her poetic-genius partner, Percy Bysshe Shelley, made love on the grave of Mary’s equally famous mother, feminist pioneer Mary Wollstonecraft. McInnes argued that, though this may be true, the term "make love" in the eighteenth century did not necessarily mean to f***.

The Mother of Science Fiction section mainly drew on the novel The Last Man (1826). Mary imagined a fast-travelling world, where London to Edinburgh would take two hours in a hot air balloon. It is a small mercy that she never lived to see the reality of modern train travel.

McInnes backed up his description of his subject as a queer ally mainly with reference to her helping Isabella Robinson and the transgressive Walter Sholto Douglas, in 1827, acquire fake passports and live lives of superficial conformity, in Europe.

Mary’s attitude to the east and the Muslim world was, McInnes acknowledged, one that didn’t necessarily paint her in such a liberal light. He referred to the way that the non-Christian world was often the original source of strife in her fiction, for example the plague in The Last Man. Even the most forward-thinking individuals still absorb the attitudes of their era.

Audience questions covered topics including Mary’s world view, how the Shelleys financed their lifestyle, Lord Byron and Orientalism, and finally, a view of American sitcom, The Munsters, as an alternative 1960s existence for Frankenstein’s Monster.

McInnes is Reader in English Literature at Edge Hill University. He certainly did justice to his subject and her difficult but "creatively engaging life."

 

About the reviewer
David Keyworth was born in West Bromwich but grew up in North Lincolnshire. He was awarded a New Poets Bursary by the Northern Writers’ Awards, 2013. His debut pamphlet, The Twilight Shift, is published by Wild Pressed. He has completed a poem-sequence called Death and Taxis, which he’d like to include in another pamphlet. He also writes for the Weekend Notes.  

Interview with Suyin Du Bois

Suyin Du Bois is a poet of mixed Chinese-Malaysian and Belgian heritage, living in London with her South African husband. Her poems have been published in Propel, Iamb, Stanzas, Bi+ Lines: An Anthology of Contemporary Bi+ Poets (Fourteen Publishing, 2023) and Malaysian Places and Spaces (Maya Press, 2024), amongst others. She is a member of the Southbank Centre’s New Poets Collective 2024/25. When not obsessing over word choice, Suyin spends her time building a profit-with-purpose start-up that seeks to ensure 24/7 access to nutritious, affordable food for NHS hospital staff. Eating Air is her debut pamphlet.

Interviewed by Laura Sygrove

LS: Eating Air opens with "Ode to Kaya," a poem that moves between childhood and adulthood. Why did this feel like the right poem to begin the collection?

SDB: "Ode to Kaya" was the first poem I wrote where food took such a central role, and it really opened up something in me. Suddenly I was thinking of all the different ways food could help me explore different areas of emotional interest. Since this poem acted as a gateway for me, I hoped it might do the same for my reader. Beyond that, it seeded some key context and themes for the collection which I hoped would help get the reader quickly into this world: the idea of multiple homes at distance from one another, the connective power of food, as well as tensions around identity.

LS: In poems such as this one, there is a sense that food and memory change when carried across borders. How has living in London affected your relationship to the places and traditions you write about?

SDB: Certainly, I think distance romanticises the worlds that you are apart from, and that we are more at risk of taking for granted that to which we have daily access. In my writing I am often trying to capture elements of the world that are not my day-to-day, to make my memories and momentary impressions tangible. Regarding living in London specifically, I love how culturally mixed London feels to me, how it feels like a place where I can be all the parts of myself. I do think it is a very positive influence on my writing in this sense. 

LS: Your preface connects food, poetry, and a sense of home, while many poems explore questions of identity and belonging. How has writing poetry helped you navigate the cultures, languages, and places that have shaped you? 

SDB: What a beautiful question. I love the reflective nature of writing poetry. It encourages me to ask questions of myself, to think about what I’m interested in communicating and why. There are parts of my cultural upbringing that are already bedded in, others I have consciously sought out for myself, and others I am only learning about now. I am still being shaped. It’s all a work in progress, and I think poetry has a supportive, parallel role to play in that. Beyond this, I love how poetry connects me to other people. I have some readers who have similar upbringings and background to me and others who have completely different ones. Hearing both these sets of readers highlight something I wrote that resonates with them is beautiful and fills me with a new sense of belonging. I honestly can’t get enough of it. 

LS: Much of the collection is written in prose poetry. What drew you to this form, and how do you decide when a poem needs a different structure?

SDB: Pretty much every poem for me starts as a brief note about a specific idea or memory. My Notes app is full of these! When I have time to sit down and write, I take one of these ideas and free-write to try to get down as much core and tangential detail as I can. From this free-write, I pick out the elements that I think make a poem, and then start writing toward that in a much more structured fashion. Usually this is where I start to introduce form. I'm firstly interested in making line breaks and stanzas work with my own cadence and pacing: I will always read my poems out loud throughout the editing process (a big reason why I struggle to edit in public!). Beyond that, I look at the overall shape and feel of the poem, and try to use the form to introduce some element of surprise or highlight particular words or ideas. 

For the slash poems in the collection, I still see these as line-broken poems rather than prose poems. In "Cut Scenes" this felt right at first due to the fragmentary nature of retelling memories that aren't mine, where I am inserting myself. Additionally, there was something about the poem being sliced up like steak that I rather liked! In "Every trip to Brussels must include a Sunday," again these felt like fragments of varying interconnectivity all stuck together in one big way, so the close separateness of the slash felt right to me here as well.

LS: In poems such as "Auntie Pixi’s Aga Agak," recipes become a way of preserving memory. What interested you about those moments where cultural inheritance feels both intimate and incomplete? 

SDB: While I very much embrace my two heritages, I feel a certain level of disconnectedness also for two key reasons (and perhaps others too). Firstly, I never knew any of my grandparents, they all passed away before I was born. Secondly, I can't speak any of my heritage languages fluently. As I've gotten older these things have bothered me more and I've mourned that feeling of distance, even in the context of love, with older family members who have now passed. This is a continuing area of interest for me.

LS: "Chinese New Year at Sara’s" explores the tension between inheriting traditions and reshaping them. Why was that an important theme for you to write about? 

SDB: I suspect that I or the things that I do will never be whole or authentic enough for some people, and so I'm conscious that I need to claim and celebrate these differences for myself. Knowing this and doing it, however, are not the same thing! Having said that, I actually didn’t realise that’s where this poem was going to go when I started to write it. It took me to quite a bold, declarative place all by itself. 

LS: The title Eating Air comes from Hokkien and Malay expressions connected to food, wellbeing, and travel. When did you realise it was the right title for the collection, and what does the phrase mean to you now?

SDB: I had these phrases "chiak hong" and "makan angin" noted down as a seed idea for a poem for a long time, and planned to explore how these idioms for travelling translate to "eating air," but I just never ended up writing into the idea. When I was getting my sample of ten poems together in response to The Emma Press open call for submissions, I needed to give the collection a working title in the proposal. I was struggling to find something within the sequence of poems itself and this jumped out at me when I turned to my Notes app for inspiration. It just seemed to fit perfectly with how the poems invite the reader to travel across the world with them. I also love how the title is intriguing in English as an unusual turn of phrase. I’ve had several people ask me the story behind it. Luckily, I was able to include an explanation in the preface, which unravels this for non-Malaysians.

LS: Food carries memory, grief, family history, identity, and belonging throughout the pamphlet. What does food allow you to explore in poetry that other subjects might not?

SDB: Food gives me a really concrete, sensory way into so many different subjects. I can start off free-writing about the physical experience of eating and end up somewhere completely different, abstract or even undefined, which I might otherwise struggle to get to or to articulate without the more tangible language of food. 

It felt really generative for me as well, having this theme of food to play with. I was constantly thinking of new meaningful food moments, and noting them all down. I was really conscious that I didn’t want to be writing the same poem over and over again though, so I kept pushing myself to make sure each poem took me in a new direction. 

About the interviewer
Laura Sygrove is a graduate of the MA Creative Writing programme at the University of Leicester. She is an advance reader at DartFrog Books and writes for The Publishing Post. You can read some of her poems here, here and here. You can read a review by Laura of Eating Air by Suyin Du Bois on Everybody's Reviewing here. 

Review by Lee Wright of "New & Collected Poems" by Jeffrey Wainwright

Forty-eight years in the making, Jeffrey Wainwright’s New & Collected Poems takes us back. It begins in 1978 with his collection Heart’s Desire – a maiden voyage to bring love and war to the page, giving the reader every ounce of life’s frustration and elation. Wainwright allows the poems to spill from his pen like a gardener shaking earth from a bulb of garlic. 

In Selected Poems (1985), his verses are often as cold as sealskin, but it’s a cold we all must face, to understand what it is to feel human. Even the subject of love in Selected Poems barely moves grass. Love, like poetry, is present, but it doesn’t change the world. Wainwright remains tightly focused on the human mind. The poems wind around the reader like vines. He avoids happiness and instead writes of Thomas Müntzer, the deteriorating mental health of George III and dead sweethearts. What is in Wainwright’s mind cannot be touched. 

The Red-Headed Pupil (1994) is a gentle reminder that as the world changes, so we change. We are, as Wainwright points out, plasticine men, shaped by our surroundings. He asks the reader tenderly if they are content among the paving stones. 

The poems stretch from 1999 to the present day, and it is these newer poems that feel deeply personal. "Did you just give up and go" is a line I’ll never get over or forget. In another line he asks, "O my soul, where are you?" which is one of those questions we collect like scars on the body as we age. Is it possible to avoid becoming world-weary as we hold on to the years? Throughout New & Collected Poems, Wainwright is concerned with this question. And who will replace us when we’re gone? That too is something the collection left me asking.  

To borrow Wainwright’s line, "the fish in cold preserve their flesh," just as the ageing poet preserves his reputation in this collected works. 

About the reviewer

Dr Lee Wright holds a PhD from the University of Leicester in Creative Non-Fiction and has had numerous pieces of short fiction and non-fiction published. 

Review by Laura Sygrove of "Eating Air" by Suyin Du Bois

 

Suyin Du Bois’ debut poetry pamphlet is a tapestry of shared cultures, a smorgasbord of delectable delights and rough estimations; a rich blend of seasoned memories and flashes in the pan. Eating Air is complex, intimate, and oftentimes devastating; a journey into the past in an attempt to preserve the present, always just seconds out of reach.

Besides Du Bois’ poetry, I’ve thought of little else for weeks. Her work begs you to read the words aloud, to savour each syllable as the speaker savours each meal. Eating Air is a collection of flavour samples that dance on the tongue and settle in the pit of your stomach. Du Bois transports the reader across oceans to sit at low dining tables, folding meal trays at high altitude, beside hospital beds and roadside stalls, relishing the familiar taste of airline food and leftovers, sand-roasted chestnuts, French pastries, and makeshift noodle dinners.

For Du Bois, eating and writing are both acts of remembering and belonging, or of not quite belonging, and of longing itself. In her preface, she describes feeling poetry in her body in much the same way as food, where "certain combinations of words can have just the right mouthfeel." Food nourishes the body while carrying emotional and cultural memory. Poetry preserves that memory, remaking it through language: "I stir and stir like her until my spoon draws the right depths of lineage."

As a title, Eating Air feels both grounding and elusive, suggesting nourishment while gesturing towards something intangible: "store-bought surrogates," swaddled exports with their "layers thinned," family recipes spooned from jam jars for the very last time. Her work reads almost as a series of diary entries, reimagining transitory yet toothsome moments in a search for self through places, memories, and identities that resist easy definition.

Du Bois writes with complete transparency, embracing the discomfort of existing between cultures. She allows these tensions to remain unresolved, capturing the feeling of being both within and without. Her poems linger in that in-between space, searching for belonging without ever insisting upon certainty. My favourite line in the collection, "I insist we oil our bloodlines mackerel slick," is as tender as it is visceral, preserving heritage not as something fixed, but as something living and lovingly maintained. In Eating Air, nourishment is found not only in food, but in language and memory, and the act of returning to them.

About the reviewer
Laura Sygrove is a graduate of the MA Creative Writing programme at the University of Leicester. She is an advance reader at DartFrog Books and writes for The Publishing Post. You can read some of her poems here, here and here.  

You can read more about Eating Air by Suyin Du Bois on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Saleh Razzouk of "Strangers" by Rebecca Ruth Gould

Strangers is a collection of short stories by Rebecca Ruth Gould, some of which first appeared in an earlier version under the longer title Strangers in Love. This new edition retains most of the original stories, with significant additions. As Gould writes in her prefatory note, these are stories of "lost bonds, fleeting connections, and relationships formed at a distance." While the first set of stories explored civilizational tensions—particularly encounters across East/West divides, often mediated through encounters that occasionally evolve into fleeting love affairs with inevitable dead ends—the new edition expands the thematic scope in two key directions.  

The first is the treatment of the cities the narrator visits, ranging from snow-covered English towns to the layered cityscapes of Tbilisi and Damascus, and finally to the scorching heat of Abu Dhabi. Between these climatic and cultural poles, Gould introduces readers to foreign lands through both direct experience and deep scholarship. 

In one particularly striking story, "Hands," Tehran emerges as a dystopian space, where the private and the political collapse into one another: "Strange how acts of affection, expressions of love, can be made into crimes." The story’s atmosphere is reminiscent of the surveilled worlds of Orwell’s 1984 and We, the prophetic novel by Russian dissident Yevgeny Zamyatin. 

This symbolic geography reaches its emotional peak in "When You Are Old," where Gould expresses deep affection for Tbilisi while sharply criticising the forces that have historically drained it of vitality. The narrative casts Tbilisi as a wounded yet dignified space, caught between imperial appetites and regional violence. The Tbilisi setting  grounds this historical imagination in architecture: "The blue and gold tiles covering the Blue Bath’s walls belonged to an age of peaceful exchanges between peoples of different faiths, languages, and ethnicities." The narrator’s voice here is not merely descriptive but accusatory, blending historical grievance with personal reverence.  

This shift does not mean that love has disappeared from the stories; rather, the love plots are increasingly shaped by questions of cultural translation, especially by the ways Arab and Middle Eastern cultures are represented, refracted, and sometimes misrecognised in English-language fiction. In "Speaking in Tongues," for example, intimacy itself becomes linguistic invention: "With time, they cultivated a language that only made sense to the two of them." The stories resist a superficial language of hybridity, in which East and West are folded too easily into coexistence, and instead insist on the  weight of historical and cultural difference. The story "Goodbye, Home" similarly underscores how the histories of peoples struggling under imperial appetites shape their present. 

The surface of travel and urban encounter, loosely bundled with love, politics, and culture, does not become documentary prose in the manner of Belarusian writer Svetlana Alexievich. Instead, it moves closer to the autobiographical and politically observant fiction of Egyptian novelist Sonallah Ibrahim, particularly his late novel Amricanly (2003), giving the autobiographical dimension greater informational density and archival texture.

A second dimension that sets this book apart  is its pedagogical impulse, which situates the individual within a longer cross-generational history. Gould’s characters are shaped by national histories, and guided not only by personal desire but also by conscience and civic duty. Her portrayal of the Middle East works through symbolic and affective registers. But the exile’s struggle to survive is often rendered through gestures such as a walk in the rain (as in "When You Are Old"), a few exchanged letters, or scripts written in what the story calls a "sleeping language." In these stories, languages do not simply die. They transform slowly, like energy, which neither disappears nor emerges from nothing.  

In this way, Strangers embodies both the outsider’s gaze and the passionate witness of a writer intent on preserving memory and dignity for oppressed peoples who have borne centuries of injustice.  

About the reviewer
Saleh Razzouk is a Syrian fiction writer, translator, and Associate Professor at the University of Aleppo. Born in Aleppo province in 1959, he was educated at Aleppo University and Gliwice Polytechnic in Poland, and also studied at Bolton Institute and the University of Nottingham in the UK. His first book was published by the Union of Arabic Writers in 1980, and his translations of contemporary poetry and literary criticism have appeared in Poetry International, Poetry London, The Bitter Oleander, and The Laurel Review.

Review by Paul Taylor-McCartney of "High Spirits: A Round of Drinking Stories," ed. Karen Stevens and Jonathan Taylor

At first glance, High Spirits appears to be an anthology united by a simple premise: stories in which alcohol plays a central role. Yet what soon becomes apparent is that this is far less a book about drink than it is about the people who drink, and the complicated lives that unfold around them. 

Stevens' and Taylor's comprehensive introduction is a critical essay in itself and hugely informative, in which they argue that "drunkenness is itself often a story," complete with a "beginning ... a middle ... and an end." It is a perceptive observation, for throughout, alcohol is rarely the subject itself. Rather, it becomes the catalyst through which loneliness, desire, memory, grief and hope are revealed.  

The anthology brings together an impressive range of contemporary writers, including both editors, Louis de Bernières, Jenn Ashworth, Alison Moore, Bethan Roberts and Desmond Barry, each bringing a distinctive voice and treatment of the premise. Some stories are comic, others unsettling; some quietly elegiac, others darkly surreal. 

One of its greatest strengths is its refusal to moralise. Drink is neither glamourised nor condemned. Instead, it’s presented as part of ordinary experience: a celebration, a habit, an escape, often a consolation, sometimes the beginning of connection and, more pointedly, the cause of its collapse. The emotional range is striking, allowing humour to sit comfortably beside vulnerability and loss. Jenn Ashworth's "Jackie Kennedy and the Widow" offers an unflinching meditation on grief, while Michael Stewart's "Painting the Walls White" explores memory and disorientation through themes of forgetting and losing one's way. Melanie Whipman's "Tasting Notes" provides another distinctive voice, demonstrating how drink can become less a subject than a lens through which relationships and identity are examined.

What emerges is a portrait of contemporary life in all its contradictions. These are stories of imperfect lives, where moments of celebration sit uneasily alongside loneliness, regret and longing. Shared drinks become occasions for confession, confrontation and reconciliation; solitary ones speak of absence and loss. Throughout, alcohol functions not as the subject but as a catalyst, bringing into sharp relief those fragile aspects of ourselves we usually keep hidden. 

It’s easy to see why High Spirits won the 2019 Saboteur Award for Best Anthology. It matures beautifully as it unfolds. Individual stories possess their own distinct flavour, yet together they create something richer than the sum of their parts. Like a conversation that grows more candid as the evening wears on, these stories remain in the mind long after the final shot, inviting readers back for the richness of their voices and the truths they quietly reveal about what it is to be both human and fallible. Intoxicating stuff. 

About the reviewer
Dr Paul Taylor-McCartney is a writer, researcher and lecturer. His interests include dystopian literature, queer studies, children’s fiction and initial teacher education. His poetry, short fiction and academic articles have appeared in a wide range of print and electronic media, and fiction titles he recently worked on as commissioning editor have won regional readers’ and publishers’ awards. His debut novel, Sisters of the Pentacle, was published by Hermitage Press in 2022, and his first non-fiction title, Cornwall Uncharted: Mapping Cornwall’s Queer History of Concealment, Culture and Creativity was published by The History Press (June 2026), to great acclaim.

Review by Isabelle McIntyre of "Demon Copperhead" by Barbara Kingsolver

If you hadn’t already clocked from the title, Demon Copperhead is inspired by Charles Dickens’ partly autobiographical David Copperfield, published in 1850 and a personal favourite of Dickens among his own novels. Kingsolver has created a truly visionary re-envisioning, following the original plot almost to the letter but in a cleverly modernised format: swapping the workhouse for meth labs, Victorian charity schools for foster care, industrial exploitation for the opioid epidemic, cobblestone streets for Dollar Generals as our protagonist narrates his life from childhood to maturity, chronicling the highs and lows (and they are low) of his upbringing in modern day Appalachia.

Our main character has been dealt an extremely unlucky hand. Just when you think Demon is at rock bottom, the bottom bottoms out. I particularly loved the line "The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between." Yet what struck me about Demon’s endless struggles was how refreshing it was to see him portrayed, not as a martyr for foster kids or poster-boy for poverty, but as a human being that was often bitter, vengeful, acerbic, and angry at his fate. Through it all, Demon is not perfect, he is fallible, exhausted by the uphill battle of his life, yet always incredibly resilient. For me, the sentiment behind his indomitable spirit hit home in regards to my own experiences in life, from losing my own mother and a plethora of other personal challenges.

For 550 wild and wonderful pages, Demon’s unfortunate reality is your reality. No matter how much we want to pretend that we can keep the bad fortune at bay and protect our privilege through our own virtue, this novel is an intense reminder that we are all at the mercy of sheer dumb luck – and we don’t have to be happy about it, despite what toxic positivity self-help books would tell you. I’d love to personally thank Barbara Kingsolver for writing this nuanced and compassionate book as I genuinely believe it’s one of those novels that changes the way you think forever. Isn’t that what reading books is about? To escape your own life to step into someone else’s shoes, and come back all the better for it. 

About the reviewer
Isabelle McIntyre is a publishing hopeful and currently working as a Bookseller with Waterstones. She reads a wide variety of titles but particularly enjoys literary fiction, with some her of favourite authors including Donna Tartt, Barbara Kingsolver, John Boyne, Lionel Shriver, and Joanna Glen. She has a BA in Politics and Spanish and takes pleasure in engaging with a range of international and political perspectives in her reading and the Substack blog she writes, Read Receipts.

Review by Isabelle McIntyre of "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck

East of Eden is one of the most divisive modern classics going. Its intensity has created two opposing camps - those who love it, and those who hate it – for there is simply no middle ground when it comes to this legendary family saga. I confess myself firmly in the "love it" camp, devouring the whopping 700 pages in just under two weeks and it has remained in my mind ever since. 

I would argue that the beauty of this novel is its pacing. It’s long – in fact, the vast majority of East of Eden is a garrulous and digressive labyrinth of several generations of side plots, monologuing, and contextual development. Yet, in our impatient modern world where we need everything faster and faster, craving instant gratification and battling ever shorter attention spans, East of Eden takes its time. It plods. It meanders. It stands atop the hill and enjoys the view. 

Specifically, the view of the Salinas Valley. One of the most primary and widely acknowledged achievements of East of Eden is its ability to bottle the sights, sounds, and smells of the Californian "salad bowl" region, so named because of its agricultural wonders and fertile soil. Steinbeck had a deep love of place, endeavouring to capture on the page both the breath-taking scenery of his homeland, as well as the human history behind the hardships of a rural existence and the complexities of agrarian development. In the two major families in East of Eden, the Trasks and the Hamiltons, Steinbeck weaves personal history with the broader narrative of the region. Despite having never set foot in the state, I was overwhelmed with a sensory overload of the Salinas Valley through his poetic homage to the area, starting from the very first page. 

I also adored the sprawling, tapestry-esque depiction of families, with all their flaws and quirks and eccentricities. I gasped aloud at the descriptions of the characters, because it was as if I was hearing my own abstract thoughts articulated into beautiful, expressive prose. I had shivers at the idea that a person who died half a century before I was even born could possibly have written down a thought that I had once had, whose words could speak to a feeling I imagined only I knew.

Furthermore, I think the overwhelming spiritual essence of the book is its defining feature. For me, it transcends your everyday books into the realm of the classic, the American mythos, the literary greats. It feels almost primordial. East of Eden is about interrogating human nature and finding the abiding human spirit, and that is simply a big old topic, and it feels deep and intense despite the whimsical prose and eccentric characters. Steinbeck carries you along his narrative river, sweeping you up in the gentle flow of rich world-building, and then drops you off the edge of the metaphorical waterfall with a bewildering, visceral nugget of wisdom that elevates this book far beyond a restrictive literary agenda.

In summary, I loved East of Eden. Straight to the top 5. It did everything a book should - it made me laugh, made me cry, made me think, most importantly it made me feel. It’s inspired me to read more modern classics and release them from the shackles of sleepy English Literature classes world over, because this book felt modern, important, and completely unique.

About the reviewer
Isabelle McIntyre is a publishing hopeful and currently working as a Bookseller with Waterstones. She reads a wide variety of titles but particularly enjoys literary fiction, with some her of favourite authors including Donna Tartt, Barbara Kingsolver, John Boyne, Lionel Shriver, and Joanna Glen. She has a BA in Politics and Spanish and takes pleasure in engaging with a range of international and political perspectives in her reading and the Substack blog she writes, Read Receipts.