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 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 Anupriya Sisodia of "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo" by Taylor Jenkins Reid

 

She didn’t just appear on my reading list. She stormed in, a living scandal in emerald silk, lips unapologetically red. 

When I started The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugou, I expected nothing more than glamor, gossip, and old-Hollywood fantasy: a familiar, dramatic, romantic escape. I thought I knew exactly what I was getting into, but I was completely wrong. The book gave me all that, plus an entertaining glimpse into scandalous fame, and then surprised me by delivering crushing sorrow and dazzling hope in equal measure. 

From the very first lines, Evelyn Hugo caught my attention with a magnetic, almost dangerous grip, a presence so dynamic I could feel her reaching off the page, refusing to let me go. She was never soft or gentle, and not always easy to like. Still, I found myself rooting for her, even when sometimes her choices left scorched earth behind. She never begged for love. She was ambition incarnate, sharp, strategic, stubborn, brave, and sometimes selfish in ways that cut uncomfortably close to reality.

What drew me in even more was her strong desire for control. She wanted fame, freedom, love, security, and power in a world where women paid a price for ambition. Her life was full of choices that blurred the line between right and wrong, and the book didn’t offer easy answers; it just simply laid bare the consequences. Evelyn felt less like a fictional character and more like a real Hollywood legend, both adored and judged, sculpted into an icon before being seen as a person and never truly understood. 

Evelyn shares her life story through interviews with journalist Monique Grant, and this storytelling style is one of the novel’s greatest strengths. The format made everything feel startlingly real and personal, almost like hearing a confession you weren’t supposed to hear, but there you were, sitting across from Evelyn Hugo herself, mascara slightly smudged, voice calm but dangerous, as she finally decided to tell the truth she buried for decades. With magazine clippings and flashbacks, the story started to feel like real history. It truly seemed as if Evelyn Hugo could have existed in Hollywood, or that someone like her did, and I was learning the truth behind years of glamorous, messy rumours.

Despite the title, this story isn’t really about the seven husbands. Each was just a mirror, a season, a chapter in Evelyn’s life, never the main focus or a big romance. Some marriages were planned, others were for convenience or were performances for an industry trying to control her. But none ever defined or truly possessed her. They simply revolved around her, showing the many versions she had to create to survive in a world that expected women to give up pieces of themselves to succeed.

Spoiler alert: the true heartbreak in the story was Celia St. James. Their love story blindsided me and left me deeply moved. Their passion was a wildfire: wild, beautiful, intense, all-consuming, and utterly devastating. They kept coming back to each other, even though pride, fear, and timing kept pulling them apart. Every reunion sparked hope, every parting left a hollow ache. It was a love so desperate, so human, that it haunted me. Love was a knife, and the world never let them put it down, reminding me that love alone was never enough to save us, especially in a world that never played fair with women. 

Then there is Harry Cameron, who was one of Evelyn’s husbands and a steady and loyal friend to her. A calm in her storm. His kindness and friendship grounded her, so when he died, the grief was overwhelming. I remember staring at the page, shocked, because his loss hurt far more than I ever expected.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is dazzling, sharp, heartbreaking, and unflinchingly honest. It made me laugh, feel pain, and even brought me to tears. Most of all, it showed me that people are never just one thing. We are a storm of contradictions. We all have wounds, dreams, hope, and heartbreak. And this book never lets Evelyn Hugo be easily defined or caged by labels. She is grief, ambition, raw longing, defiant love, and relentless survival all at once. By the end, the woman in emerald silk refused to be just a headline. She demanded to be remembered as a person: flawed, fierce, complicated, and unapologetically herself. 

And long after I closed the book, she stayed with me. I know she always will.

About the interviewer 
Anupriya Sisodia is a published romance fiction author, pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. She is an avid reader who loves writing stories with realistic, relatable characters who embark on emotional and exciting journeys toward happily-ever-afters.

This review was awarded an "honorable mention" in our 2026 Student Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Olivia Peachey of "A Short Stay in Hell" by Steven L. Peck

Once I finally had the chance to read Steven L. Peck’s A Short Stay in Hell, I devoured the whole 100-pages-or-so in an evening. Peck’s existential tragedy did not disappoint.

The work is predicated on the idea of a Hell (indeed, I found the novel through a list of unique fictional Hells) that is neither eternal nor violent – in fact it provides everything its inhabitants need. It also contains, however, endless rows and floors of bookshelves: this Hell is a Library of Babel, with one of every book that has been written and could ever be written – meaning more books than there are atoms in our universe. Those within the library can only leave once they find a book that contains their complete life story, without spelling or grammar errors.

The book does not humour the goal of finding one’s life story in this library as a narrative end-goal. Rather, it’s how the humans trapped in this Hell act, and how the story is structured, that reveals the narrative’s true purpose – a meditation on the meaning of eternity, and the effects of such endless monotony on a human’s psyche. The novella sees its protagonist, Soren, reflect from billions of years in the future, establishing that everything he goes on to describe in his first weeks, centuries, and millennia in Hell are from aeons in the past. The initial hope the human prisoners feel in the first days are tinged with doom, which plays out in slow-motion as Peck jumps around Soren’s long, long afterlife.

As the novellas catches up with Soren’s present reflections, he reveals that he has done less in millions on billions of years than he did in a thousand with the people he loved and lost to the bookshelf mazes. The detailed description of human innovations, societies, cults, expeditions, celebrations, etc. fall away as the book nears its close, fulfilling the awful terror spelled out by its introductory pages; the book opens with a man in utter defeat, and pulls the reader along the journey that got him there without a single unnecessary detail, only a careful erosion of hope on a scale like infinity – even if Soren’s life does not even scrape infinity, a fact terrifying by itself.

With its deft use of structure and stark, uncomplicated prose, A Short Stay in Hell is as worthy an interpretation of Hell as any.

About the reviewer
Olivia Peachey is an English undergraduate at the University of Leicester. She’s written professionally for sites such as Game Rant and Dualshockers while focusing on writing poetry in her free time, much of which has also been published online.

This review was awarded an "honorable mention" in our 2026 Student Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke of "Wilder Girls" by Rory Power

It’s been eighteen months since Raxter School for Girls was put under quarantine after its residents began dying from a mysterious illness. The Tox affects everyone differently: the headmistress’s lips constantly ooze blood; Byatt grows a second spine that protrudes from her back; Reese’s arm becomes covered in silver, reptilian scales; Hetty’s eye fuses shut, and she sometimes feels a strange sensation beneath the closed lid.

Secluded on a small island, Raxter’s remaining inhabitants rely on the navy to drop off limited food and supplies. There is never enough. Venturing beyond the school’s fence to retrieve resources is dangerous, as The Tox continues to spread through both wildlife and landscape. All the while, the girls wait for the cure they were promised.

When Byatt goes missing, Hetty and Reese venture into the infected wilderness to find her, uncovering unsettling truths about Raxter.

In this young adult novel by Rory Power, body horror is constant and vivid but rarely feels gratuitous. Instead, it reflects the girls’ loss of control over both their bodies and their environment. At the same time, there is a strong undercurrent of female resilience. The girls are not passive victims; they adapt, endure, and make difficult decisions in a world that continues to shrink around them.

The core premise of an isolated, single-gender group has drawn comparisons to Lord of the Flies. However, where Lord of the Flies suggests that human beings are inherently savage, Wilder Girls does the opposite. Here, the true monstrosity lies not within the girls themselves, but in the forces acting upon them: The Tox, the isolation, and the institutions willing to abandon them. When violence does occur, it emerges from desperation rather than cruelty, making their relationships feel both fragile and deeply human.

The novel echoes real-world histories of isolation, from leper colonies such as Spinalonga and Kalaupapa to plague quarantine islands like Lazzaretto Vecchio. It also invites comparison with the COVID-19 pandemic, when global quarantine measures sparked debates over civil liberties and collective responsibility. The ethical tension between sacrificing a few for the many is a subtle undercurrent, though the novel resists offering simple answers.

Ultimately, Wilder Girls is not just about infection or survival, but about friendship, endurance, and the struggle to remain human even as the body becomes irrevocably altered. Beneath its horror lies the fragile hope of a world beyond containment.

About the reviewer 
Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke is an author and dramatist with a penchant for the macabre and a fascination with literary explorations of libertinism, psychopathy, narcissism, and coercive control. She is currently undertaking a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester, exploring Terror Management Theory in relation to representations of cultism and mass suicide.

This review is the winner of our 2026 Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Rowan Gromocki of "Stag Dance" by Torrey Peters

A gender apocalypse, cross-dressing lumberjacks, a boarding school romance, and a Las Vegas sexcapade: Stag Dance was a blind pick in a local bookstore. I knew little about the author and was lured in by the chaotic cover and blurb. I was half expecting a light, smutty read. What I found were three short stories and a novella, each unique but tied together by themes of gender performance, the human need to be desired, and social hierarchy. 

"Infect Your Friends and Loved Ones": set in a gender dystopia, the opening story brought to mind The Handmaid’s Tale and The Power, but with a more futuristic and sci-fi backdrop. A frustrated trans activist releases a rather original form of biowarfare: a contagion that halts the human production of sex hormones, making society reliant on HRT and fertility treatment to survive. What I found almost satisfying was observing how every member of society is forced to confront their identity and make decisions about their body in a way that trans people do every day. I appreciated the creativity and research behind the writing, as grotesque genetically modified pigs are bred and traded so that humans can pump themselves with testosterone and estrogen. I enjoyed the way Peters set up the apocalypse, following the dating lives of trans men and women and detailing the fatigue of having each moment "monitored and mocked," which led to the start of the pandemic. I almost wish this book had been a standalone piece so that she would have had the space to build on the world further.

"The Chaser": the narrator sneaks into a laundrette, steals a silk nightdress, and allows his gender-questioning roommate, Robbie, to wear it for him. What I found saddening was  Robbie realising it was purely an act of lust and that their connection would never leave the confines of their bunk beds. Watching their relationship unfurl, I found myself left in two minds about whether the narrator only ever sees Robbie as a fetish, or if external judgment is stopping him from pursuing a romantic relationship. What I found especially compelling was watching the narrator become the target of Robbie’s jilted emotions, and I was surprised to see the narrative take such a disturbing turn.

"Stag Dance": a sexually frustrated band of axemen throw a dance where some may attend as women. This triggers an awakening in Babe Bunyan, a giant, brutish-looking man who I couldn’t help but root for, as he begins to yearn to be treated with softness and care by the other men around him. For me, this novella portion of the book felt a little drawn out and awkwardly placed in the middle, but I did not expect myself to be so invested in the hypermasculine world of lumberjacks.

"The Masker": this was a short and wonderfully uncomfortable read. Sally, an older trans woman who feels she has "earned" her womanhood through years of surgery and social sacrifice, finds her identity is exposed and threatened by Felix, a raunchy masked cross-dresser who saves his hyper-feminine sissy persona for kinky nights away from his wife and children. Through their clash, and throughout the book as a whole, I found that Peters artfully reveals many intimate anecdotes and reflections on the transfeminine experience.

About the reviewer
Rowan Gromocki is a graduate of the University of Leicester, holding a BA in Journalism and an MA in Media, Culture & Society. Their postgraduate dissertation explored evolving social standards through the lens of historical fashion and etiquette magazines. Rowan has worked in both the beauty industry and for charities aimed at raising literacy worldwide. Outside of work, they are an avid reader of gothic and historical fiction, particularly the works of Daphne du Maurier and Sarah Waters, and enjoy attending music festivals.

Review by Jonathan Wilkins of "A Thousand Souls" by Catherine Tudish

When I was sent this book, I was due to attend a tedious round of tests. My wife, who was accompanying me, hijacked the novel, and she enjoyed it so much I asked her for a short review:

"Loved this book; read it in one day. It was an easy read as it was written so well and each chapter was one part of the whole. By that I mean that this is the story of a small town and each chapter relates to those living there and their stories. It deserves a wide audience as it could easily be a best seller. I’ll certainly be recommending it to my friends."

In A Thousand Souls we have a collection of fourteen stories intervolving the lives of three generations in the isolated American town of Neptune, Vermont. The fourteen stories in Tudish’s beautifully crafted book intertwine the lives of three generations of Neptune as they inevitably touch the outside world. We read of a boy born of an illicit romance travelling to South Carolina for a first-time and meeting with his  father. We encounter a widow and friend who solve the mystery of a missing girl. The local sheriff breaks up a drug operation, only, in a nod to current American affairs, to get arrested for helping undocumented workers evade ICE. The frustrated wife of a mail driver presents him with a nude portrait of herself. A magical section sees a shy girl lose her stutter when she speaks to a black bear. In another chapter a boy has strange nightmares that appear to represent the memories of a stranger’s tragedy.

As in any small town, loyalties and traditions are tested through loss, betrayal and day-to-day living. The town’s characters epitomize the belongingness that comes from a close-knit rural community.

These  charmingly written,  wryly observed, delicate stories give us a view of life that is relatable, conveying the costs of interrelationship and kinship as the years pass. All of them demonstrate how seemingly ordinary lives can take unforeseen and unpredictable twists and turns.

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.

You can read more about A Thousand Souls by Catherine Tudish on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Anna O'Sullivan of "Open Throat" by Henry Hoke

Open Throat by Henry Hoke is a profound and experimental piece of literary fiction that will linger with you long after reading it. The novel follows an isolated, queer mountain lion living under the Hollywood sign, observing the insular, self-centred conversations between passers-by, whilst navigating the complexities of their own identity. Inspired by P22, a mountain lion who lived in Griffith Park after successfully crossing two major freeways, and monitored by researchers until his death in 2022, Hoke creates a powerful story that can be digested in one sitting. 

Hoke writes in evocative and lyrical prose, comparable to a work of poetry; the lion’s stream of consciousness is non-linear and uninterrupted by punctuation, creating a real sense that readers are experiencing the lion’s deep thoughts. The combination of humour, through the lion’s misinterpretation of words, alongside the emotional turmoil of yearning for connection, adds to the story’s emotional depth and Hoke’s literary brilliance. 

What stands out about Hoke’s novel is his ability to draw from a diverse range of social issues in contemporary society. This is not just a story about a lion losing its way. Hoke discusses the importance of "human" connection, as the lion struggles with segregation from society, and the hierarchical way in which humans regard the animal kingdom as inferior. Another important theme throughout is ecological grief, and the depressing reality of climate change and human impact on the environment; Hoke leans into real-world anxieties, integrating the terrifying destruction of the LA wildfires and the homelessness crisis. 

If you are looking for something different to read, Hoke’s novel offers a new and compelling narrative. Readers of Weird Girl Fiction, a genre expanding in popularity, may be drawn to this novel, as although it does not follow the experience of a "Girl," it has similar components of complex relationships, strong emotions and unconventional themes. Open Throat has earned its strong and unique presence in the genre of literary and contemporary fiction. It offers something new – the point of view of a complex mountain lion, viewing barriers in society through a symbolic lens. If this doesn’t entice readers, then the gripping first line of the book is sure to: ‘I’ve never eaten a person but today I might."

About the reviewer
Anna O’Sullivan is a University of Leicester graduate with a BA in English and MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature and Creative Writing. She enjoys travelling, and recently returned from five months of backpacking across Latin America. Anna’s predominant passion is books; she is an avid reader, BookToker, attendee of literature events and employee at Hachette UK. She is currently guest editor of Everybody's Reviewing. 

Review by Iain Minney of "The Dark Fields" by Alan Glynn

Adam Glynn’s 2001 debut is probably best described as the fabled "positive drug story," albeit a cautionary tale about drug use. Strong themes of addiction, excess and greed run through it like a stick of rock.  

More-traditional drug users fall somewhere in-between hallucinating hippies, giggling stoners or hyperactive, gurning ravers, with the perception being uniformly negative. The "positive" drug in this novel, "MDT-48," allows the user to remain uncluttered, learning and performing practical tasks with a radically, evidence-based improvement, unlike other drugs, which merely mess with the user’s perception of themselves. In other words, MDT is the ultimate drug fantasy: it actually DOES make you smart and interesting.

Eddie Spinola is a something of an average guy; a little past his prime and stuck in a rut. The writing assignment he requested isn’t the labour of love and salvation he thought it’d be, and he has little else lined up on the horizon.  But a happenstance encounter with his ex-wife’s shady brother quickly changes his fortune. Literally.

Now (with a certain tiger-in-his-tank) Eddie’s blasting his way up the ladder a little too quickly and a little too impatiently for his own good, in order to quell his various appetites … and with his secret stockpile in place, but all manner of gaps, cracks, hallucinations and allegations becoming increasingly obvious and hard to ignore, the only question seems to be how much higher can Eddie go?

A neat and original premise is wonderfully executed (especially for a debut) and metered out with appropriate caution and respect to the subject of drug use, rather than the fantastical and pithy romanticism that could have been applied to a substance that, thankfully, doesn’t exist. Although MDT could essentially be considered an aid to concentration (some sort of hyper-concentrated Ritalin, for example), it allows the story to expand on "Addiction to ambition" as another interesting sub-reference to the Reaganomics era, to which so much is unfortunately owed.  

The writing style is pleasant too, with the quasi-autobiographical first-person narrative providing a rewarding full-circle twist ending, that underlines what must have been a genuinely thorough and painstaking research process, allowing the author any number of hidden in-jokes. The tycoon character "Van-Loon" seems suspiciously similar to a figurehead brand like Trump, the so-called "Psychopharmacological" writer probably references Tim Leary, and even the title is taken from a line in The Great Gatsby.  There’s even a theme on lost (and rediscovered) love, and a pining for lost youth, signified in Eddie's love of drugs that he used to enjoy back with his ex-wife.

About the reviewer
Iain Minney (B.A. in Journalism & Creative Writing): tall, "mature," sober, comedian(ish). He has dabbled in stand-up comedy - which he has been writing since he was teenager - as well as being involved with comedy sketches, local filmmaking groups and working on local radio for a number of years both as "Head of News" and having his own weekly 3-hour show. He has been interested in writing for some time and even tried recording a number of audiobooks of short stories he's written together with satirical rants based on the standup he never quite "stood up" with. He loves old punk and 80s rock music, all manner of movies, and Bill Hicks and George Carlin SAVED HIS LIFE. But that's a whole other conversation.

Review by Lisa Williams of "Gentle November" by Alan Edward Roberts

"He was a magician but not a very good one": this is a book seemingly at first about an affair. The couple have just eloped, but I wouldn’t file this under "romance." They masquerade uncomfortably as father and daughter. There seems to be very little excitement and not much joy.

The story, we discover, is about a woman on a collision course, her life a "runaway train of sad events" heading towards a waiting desert. Namibia, specifically the Skeleton Coast, beckons from a childhood map, a "turbulent flight" away on a "long-ago upstairs landing."

This is somewhere she’s dreamed about, but again she doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself. Things happen around her: life is out of her control.

We walk along a parched landscape of haunted trees and wrecked boats, the backdrop to a beautifully painful tale. This small volume is an intriguing story, one that pulls you in and demands to be read in one sitting. Gentle November is peppered with disturbing scenes and images and is skilfully haunting. We never find out the woman's name. This leaves a superb sense of unease, makes you feel like perhaps you weren’t paying her enough attention, and the story consequently lingers beautifully on, long after you’ve put the book down.

About the reviewer
Lisa Williams has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She writes word-limited flash fiction, mostly drabbles - stories of exactly one hundred words. You can find her online @noodleBubble. 

Review by Laura Besley of "Paper Sisters" by Rachel Canwell

"What you saw was a woman, bent out of shape. Pushed beyond her breaking point. Turns out we’ve all got them." Rachel Canwell’s debut novel, Paper Sisters, depicts the lives of three family members: sisters Eleanor and Lily as well as their sister-in-law, Clara. Each of these young women is isolated – by grief, by circumstances, and by the unforgiving marsh and relentless river of the fen. And looming over it all is the unstoppable march towards World War I. 

After the prologue, which depicts one of the many great sorrows that hangs over this family, Paper Sisters opens on May Day, 1914. The tension between the two sisters – Eleanor who wants change, who wishes to go out, and Lily who wants everything and everyone to stay the same – is immediately apparent: "Irritation, ancient and unchecked, rises. Eleanor’s gaze drifts back to the window, out to the never-ending sky; vast, buttressing every leaf, reed, and clump of grass. Today its cornflower blue is marked by just a wisp of early summer cloud. As always, the sky dominates, claiming her eye and this place as its very own."

Place plays a large part in the novel. The two houses in which much of the story unfolds – one overshadowed by an abandoned hospital, the other by an unstable husband – feel cramped and claustrophobic; the landscape feels vast and wild and unpredictable. It is against these places, and against this time in history, that each of the three women grapple with the difficulties of their lives. 

Their actions are, in turn, admirable and shameful – all three are both hero and villain. On their own paths, yet unable to avoid the intersections, Eleanor, Lily and Clara cannot live with each other, but nor can they live independently. As more and more tragedy is heaped upon them, the story is propelled forward to its unexpected yet inevitable conclusion. 

Rachel Canwell is the author of a flash fiction collection, Oh I Do Like to Be (2022), and a novella-in-flash, Magpie Moon (2022). Paper Sisters – compelling and immersive; full of horror, yet full of hope – is her first full-length novel. 

About the reviewer

Laura Besley enjoys exploring big stories in small spaces and has published four collections of flash/micro, most recently: Sum of her PARTS (V. Press, 2025). She is currently a Creative Writing PhD student at the University of Leicester, an editor with Flash Fiction Magazine and JMWW, and runs The NIFTY Book Club.

Review by Kimaya Tushar Patil of "The Cruel Prince" by Holly Black

"If I cannot be better than them, I will become so much worse": The Cruel Prince by Holly Black drags the readers into the twisted realm of Faerie, where smiles equal danger and beauty hides ruthlessness. And for a mortal, most days, survival means walking a knife's edge between wit and wavering morals. The narrative follows Jude Duarte, a mortal girl who was abducted along with her twin and half-sister, and whisked to the realm of Faerie after the brutal massacre of her biological parents by the Grand General of Elfhame. 

Growing up in the realm of Faerie, Jude learned early on to tread with caution even when being protected by the General's reputation. The only way to rise above her oppressors was to gain power over them. 

Black's narrative revolves around Jude's metamorphosis from a victim to a cunning strategist fuelled by political ambition. She twists the familiar, captivating beauty of Faerie with moral ambiguity, exposing the cruelty hiding beneath. Her prose is succinct and adds deeper layers of emotions to the atmosphere of the world. And while the political intrigue is multifaceted, the pacing sometimes stutters as scenes of intimidation and violence recur. Her worldbuilding is extensive, but it sometimes focuses solely on ambiguous emotion, rather than information for the reader.

The subtle romantic tension between Prince Cardan and Jude lays a foundation for the character arc to progress emotionally in the later books. Unlike most Young Adult leads, Jude's desire for power, along with her readiness to deceive, exploit, and accept cruelty for it, adds a twist to the traditional "moral heroine."   

The Cruel Prince excels in its incisive rendering of its characters and political intricacy. Black presents us with a dark and cunning fantasy that instead of appealing to sentiments, appeals to readers who crave a morally multifaceted heroine and worlds where survival hangs between the right choice or the necessary choice.  

About the reviewer
Kimaya Tushar Patil is a graduate of the University of Leicester’s MA in Creative Writing programme. A lifelong reader, writer and poet, she is particularly interested in fiction, narrative voice, and literary craft. She enjoys engaging critically with books that leave a lasting impression. You can read more about Kimaya's work on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Lee Wright of "Common" by Nikolai Duffy

With Common, his first novel, Nikolai Duffy explores transcendentalism in a search for the sacred within the everyday. The narrator, Robert, returns to his childhood home in Hampshire to settle the affairs of his late aunt's estate. But it soon becomes clear that Robert is seeking something far deeper, a spiritual awakening beyond the duties of an executor. A walk across the local common leads him to construct a simple hut, and he retreats into it for a week of introspection. 

Sometimes the only way for a writer to tackle the big questions is by starting with the small ones, and all portraits are, to a large degree, self-portraits. Robert admits to being happy to be among the folds and shadows of the heathland, and it is impossible not to see Duffy himself, enclosed within the books, drafts, and notes of the writing room; both the author and his narrator are surrounded by the things that nurture creativity.

Robert’s thoughts sail over many mundane seas - patches of sunlight filter through unwashed windows as he defrosts bread for his breakfast, he drinks coffee, he texts GIFs to his wife, Claire, and his two children. But a novel can show you what a character is thinking, and then show you what they are saying, and Duffy achieves that distance between the two. The author elevates otherwise simple acts into symbolic enactments; themes of fate, guilt, responsibility, and transformation are repeated throughout. 

Having resolved to construct his makeshift hut, Robert describes heading out to the common "under the weight of what I was carrying. The posts were cumbersome, and I struggled to hold them." 

The echo is clear: this is Robert’s Way of the Cross. If we dismiss the Simon of Cyrene narrative, then Robert, like Jesus of Nazareth, carries his cross himself. For Robert, this is a test, a moment of spiritual reckoning. He will not be the man he was when he left. With the common alive with croaks and scurries after dark, Robert experiences a fierce exhilaration in forging his own Walden-like retreat. Yet the issue of claiming ownership cannot be overlooked. Robert believed that his devoted aunt considered him a work in progress, a project to nurture and cultivate, and in building his hut on the common, he is equally complicit in treating a space as something to shape for himself.

Duffy’s expertise in literature and creative writing is evident in the intellectual richness of Common, yet the novel’s pacing is occasionally hindered by the persistent influence of his academic background. But if Socrates was right that the unexamined life is not worth living, then Duffy demonstrates a remarkable capacity to see the world anew and to deepen our understanding of it. 

About the reviewer
Lee Wright is a fiction and non-fiction writer currently undertaking a research degree at the University of Leicester, where his thesis focuses life-writing informed by horror cinema.  

Review by Rhiannon Buckley of "Angel Reach" by Gus Gresham

Characters feel unflinchingly imperfect and real in this collection of short stories by Gus Gresham. For me, the author writes in a way which is unapologetic to the human experience and calls on you to see through another’s eyes. When the character stumbles upon a question, often seemingly unanswerable, I found myself asking the same thing.

Not all books are easy for me to visualise but the stories Angel Reach flowed beautifully and played out like a movie in my mind. None more so than "Woofers and Tweeters" - I love the way the characters here intertwine, adding layers as you read. I really do look forward to reading more short stories from Gus Gresham. Excellent stuff!

About the reviewer
Rhiannon Buckley is an East Midlands based author, actor and communication skills educator. Her first book A Mind Blown was published in 2025. 

You can read more about Angel Reach by Gus Gresham on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Gus Gresham of "Maybe the Birds" by A. J. Ashworth

This short story collection by A. J. Ashworth is a rewarding read, each story like a piece of mysterious treasure from a dug-up pirates’ chest. The prose is beautiful, understated, sometimes beguiling, and full of humanity.

In the title story, we understand that we are in the midst of something apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic. Aside from hints, the details of the main "event" are left out. The focus is the effects upon the lives of survivors, upon a particular survivor, and the warm relationship between her and her dog. It’s about what we might leave behind as a legacy when the familiar world is lost, and in her case this takes the form of recreating the lost sounds of birdsong with bespoke clay pipes.

"Leather" is effectively a story about a story. It reads as a review of a story about woman’s strange "find" in a second-hand bookshop. This review approach works surprisingly well. It’s a clever, playful and enjoyable device. The story is analysed and questioned for us by a fictional narrator/reviewer who employs tantalising quotes from the story itself. Some of the descriptive language and tone-setting is particularly strong: "… the kind of curdled light that comes before a rainstorm," echoed later, in other lines like fried eggs that are "broken and bleeding yellow onto the plate."

"Mirrors" was a personal favourite. It has the sense of something apocalyptic again, like "Maybe the Birds," but "Mirrors" is even darker, more enigmatic, told in second person, and with the prose itself fractured on and across the pages. Unsettling to say the least, and rendered so beautifully.

There is scope for humour, too, in this collection. The premise of "The Monolith" can be gleaned from the following short quote as the protagonist speaks with her ex on the phone: "…thinks she sees a ripple across the monolith, as if it’s made of black liquid. ‘I’m not joking, Carl. There’s a monolith in the yard.’" There is so much to enjoy in this story. Mystery, inventiveness, the study of relationships, and of course more gorgeous prose: "A gust of wind makes the window frame crack like a bone."

"Small Feathers Falling" centres on the treatment of women by some men. There are creepiness and horror in this tale, which – among other things – stands as a stark reminder of how we should listen to our gut when the early warning bells chime in a new relationship. We dismiss sinister behaviour all too often, don’t we?, and let it slide all too often. The casually delivered, derogatory names the male antagonist calls the female protagonist become "dark moths in her head." The descriptions of the owl are wonderful, and the story’s creepiness and tension build to a point where anything could and does happen.

The book’s "Afterword" is an insightful essay which provides a more academic angle on the book’s themes. Ashworth talks of "… how female characters in postapocalyptic settings … [continue] … with preapocalyptic activities." List-making and sculpture are suggested to be the mainstay here, and indeed the title story comes back to mind with the protagonist’s careful and loving clay-hewn "syrinxes" designed to mimic the sounds of birds in a world that has lost its birds (and we has suspect lost much more).

Each story is also rich with allegory, in my view, and Maybe the Birds is a collection to be savoured.

About the Reviewer
Gus Gresham’s short stories have appeared in literary magazines and online, many of which are now collected in his latest book, Angel Reach. He is author of the novel Kyiv Trance and of the young adult novels Earthrise and Marmalade Skies. He has travelled widely and worked as a mechanical engineer, fruit picker, construction worker, environmental activist, writer, English tutor, audio-book producer, interpersonal skills facilitator, and building surveyor.

You can read more about Maybe the Birds by A. J. Ashworth on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Lisa Williams of "FantasticLand" by Mike Bockoven

It’s the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness so the time is ripe for getting cosy with some dark dystopian fiction. FantasticLand is a theme park and has been a mecca for fun since the 70s. A hurricane hits and floods the area; a team of predominantly college-aged employees are hired to look after the now-isolated park in the aftermath of the storm. What follows is a modern-day Lord of the Flies. The book isn’t for everyone – the violence is graphic and relentless. There’s a lovely juxtaposition though between the Disney-type theme park where "fun is guaranteed" and the grisly events that follow the storm, as society rapidly breaks down. The story is told through transcripts of interviews and eye-witness reports that give the story a real credibility. It’s reminiscent of a 1970s disaster movie, and in parts you do have to suspend your disbelief and just enjoy the ride. FantasticLand by Mike Bockoven is a gripping tale and fab for losing yourself in as the nights close in.

About the reviewer
Lisa Williams has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She writes word-limited flash fiction, mostly drabbles - stories of exactly one hundred words. You can find her online @noodleBubble 

Review by Nicole Yurcaba of "Wolf Bells" by Leni Zumas

Leni Zumas’s novel Wolf Bells publishes in September 2025 in the United States, and, honestly, with the current socio-political dysfunction rampaging across the US, it is a novel that could arrive at a more appropriate time. Why? With the signing of Trump’s "Big, Beautiful Bill" into law on 4 July 2025, caretakers across the United States will face increased work requirements for Medicaid and SNAP benefits. The bill also reduces accessibility to essential supports and significantly cuts home-and-community-based services. Thus, an important question arises: when the government cuts essential, life-affirming, and life-saving services and benefits to citizens, whose role is it to provide them? Essentially, Wolf Bells—with its portrayal of an intergenerational community led by a former punk singer—attempts to answer this question. However, the novel also dares to explore the consequences of what happens when a community’s good intentions go completely awry.

On a bluff above a river rises the House, a place where the elderly, the disabled, the abandoned, and the young live alongside one another and complete daily tasks and chores in order to receive free rent. Caz, a former punk singer, is the caretaker for the House’s inhabitants. The House teeters on financial ruin’s edge, and to worsen Caz’s predicaments, two kids—Nola and her little cousin James—show up, needing refuge. James is a special-needs child whose behaviour taxes everyone, but a mystery also looms as to why Nola chose to take James and venture towards the House. As each of the characters wrestles with their own strange, often heartbreaking circumstances—ranging from an elderly man whose daughter has seemingly abandoned him to a woman whose memories of the Holocaust haunt her daily—they must also band together to care for James in whatever ways they can. Meanwhile, the authorities are searching for Nola and James, and those in the House’s surrounding area who know Nola and James’s whereabouts threaten to wreck the House’s goals and innerworkings.

Wolf Bells is raw and gritty and real—a bit like a new, contemporary version of Lord of the Flies. Or, perhaps, it can also be compared to that single scene in Tim Burton’s Dark Shadows in which each of the Collins family members are seated miserably around a gigantic table, throwing coarse verbal jabs at one another while Donovan’s "Season of the Witch" plays in the background. The House and its residents are isolated from the outer world’s laws, trappings, and expectations. The House and its residents abide by one set of rules, and, despite their seemingly disrespectful take on another, they do interact and secretly care about one another. Discreetly, Wolf Bells addresses the individual sacrifices, as well as the necessary theoretical, practical and serious changes in societal and cultural mindsets intergenerational living requires. As the housing crisis intensifies, and as medical and long-term care costs skyrocket not only in America, but globally, more and more families and individuals consciously choose intergenerational living. Wolf Bells addresses this issue, since each and every character must make individual sacrifices for the betterment of the House’s residents. Communal bathrooms and living spaces strip away the guise of private ownership and entitlement. Each resident recognizes that spaces like one known as The Fish Bowl are meant for communal interaction, and such spaces eradicate the notion of private ownership. Thus, each character develops a deeper sense of responsibility for maintaining and cleaning these shared spaces. 

Of course, one cannot read Wolf Bells without recognizing the disruption Nola and James’s presence causes for the House’s occupants. Wolf Bells portrays Nola as a sensible, precocious youngster who is wise beyond her years because of the neglect she has endured and navigated. She feels a responsibility to and duty for James and knows and perceives his needs better than most adults. However, no matter how much the House’s adults attempt to band together to care for—and even simply tolerate—the children’s presence, lapses in care develop. At first, it is humorous that James toddles around, eating the leaves of one of the plants in the House. Closer to the novel’s end, one of the characters recognizes that James should not be eating the leaves and that Caz does not even know whether or not the plants are edible or poisonous. In this scene, it becomes evident that the House is not truly intergenerational, since the needs of a toddler have never been considered. Also, James’s special needs pose an even larger challenge for the residents of the House, drawing even more into question the House’s inclusivity. James’s needs should be woven into the daily life of the House’s residents, since his needs are a clear reminder of the residents’ interdependence one another.

For one character, the mysterious Marika, James's personality and his behaviour remind Marika of her brother, Theo, whom German soldiers killed because he was disabled. Of all of Wolf Bells’ characters, Marika displays the most empathy for and connection with James. Nevertheless, Marika possesses an otherness entirely her own, one that also sets her apart from the other characters in Wolf Bells. She is Greek, and she is Jewish, and at one point she reflects: "'And then when I came to this country, I learned that Greek in America, meant 'alien' and 'unintelligible.' To be Greek and Jewish was much worse. Refugees of the war America won were not welcome in America because we were spies and Communists, we would steal jobs from citizens, we would spread contagion.'" Therefore, while James becomes the novel’s great educator, so to speak, he and Marika serve as strange, intergenerational mirrors of one another bound together by their otherness and united by a place that fails to understand them.

 Part of Wolf Bells’ allure lies in that it is implicitly political and socially aware without being polemical and trite. Wolf Bells is as radical as the society-shifting housing practices it explores—one completely unflinching in its boldness and bravery.

About the reviewer

Nicole Yurcaba (Нікола Юрцаба) is a Ukrainian American of Hutsul/Lemko origin. Her poems and reviews have appeared in Appalachian Heritage, Atlanta Review, Seneca Review, New Eastern Europe, Euromaidan Press, Chytomo, and The New Voice of Ukraine. Her poetry collection, The Pale Goth, is available from Alien Buddha Press. 

Review by Lisa Williams of "The Names" by Florence Knapp

"Cora never liked the name Gordon. The way it starts with a splintering sound that makes her think of cracked boiled sweets, and then ends with a thud like slamming down a sports bag."

Billed as "the story of three names, three versions of a life," this is a heart-tugging read but written in utterly enchanting prose.

In 1987, the UK was battered by a great storm. The book begins that night: as husband, Gordon, reminds his wife to register their son’s name the next day. And so, with the simple act of a baby being named the story starts and the damage from the storm is revealed. There are three separate stories told in the book. It’s the same family but the child gets a different name and life in each of the tales.

After a couple of chapters for each of the three names the plot jumps forward seven years. This gives quite a pleasing switch in your head between the different stories - and often a lurching dread when you remember how we left the action at the end of the last segment. 

The Names is a debut novel by Florence Knapp and already I can’t wait to read her next one.

About the reviewer
Lisa Williams is a creative soul from Leicester. She has a Masters in Creative Writing from Leicester University. She writes mostly short fiction and really likes the challenge of a word limit – usually one hundred words. She publishes weekly on Substack here.

Review by Wiktoria Borkowska of "I Who Have Never Known Men" by Jacqueline Harpman

What does it mean to be human when you’ve never truly known another soul? Jacqueline Harpman’s I Who Have Never Known Men is a quietly devastating dystopian novel that explores freedom, identity, and survival in a world stripped of meaning.

Originally published in 1995, the novel follows an unnamed narrator—the youngest of forty women imprisoned in an underground bunker, guarded by silent men and with no knowledge of how they got there. When the cage doors unexpectedly open, the women are forced into a barren, post-apocalyptic landscape, where the narrator begins a journey marked by loss, isolation, and a quiet longing for connection.

Harpman’s sparse prose perfectly mirrors the bleakness of the setting, yet it’s the narrator’s inner world that carries the emotional weight. Her introspection and resilience draw the reader in, especially as she grapples with the desire to understand a life she’s never truly lived. A fleeting connection with a young guard—one she doesn’t fully understand—captures the human need for touch, recognition, and feeling.

At one point, the women make a harrowing discovery that challenges their understanding of their own suffering and expands the novel’s exploration of isolation, punishment, and shared fate. Rather than provide answers, Harpman leans into the ambiguity, which only deepens the existential questions the novel poses.

Despite its slow pacing, I Who Have Never Known Men is a deeply thoughtful and emotionally resonant read. The atmosphere is unsettling but never sensationalised, and the philosophical depth invites quiet reflection long after finishing the book.

I recommend this to readers who appreciate introspective, dystopian fiction that prioritises emotion and thought over action—and those drawn to stories of quiet female solidarity. It’s a novel that doesn’t shout—but it echoes.

Favourite quote: "We were not who we were because we had lost the world, but because we were lost in it."

About the reviewer
Wiktoria Borkowska is a first-year Journalism student at the University of Leicester. She enjoys reading emotionally rich fiction and writing reflective reviews on a wide range of fiction, literature, and film.

Review by Kathy Hoyle of "Cuddy" by Benjamin Myers

 

Cuddy by Benjamin Myers is a deeply moving, highly original novel. Part historical fiction, part poetic ballad, this novel is dappled with dreamlike prose that takes us on a journey across the stunning North-East landscape as we follow the pilgrims of St Cuthbert from Anglo- Saxon times through to present day. 

This is a work of historical fiction. This is a work of contemporary fiction. It is a poetic ballad, a script, literary prose, a whimsical puzzle, a themed collection. In short, it’s a genre-defying, fragmented-yet-fully-formed hybrid novel … and like nothing I have ever read before. 

During the 7th Century Viking invasions, the body of St Cuthbert is resurrected. An unofficial saint, Cuthbert - renowned for his gentle manner and affinity to animals - is protected by his devoted servants who carry his body around the North-East until his final resting place is found – a hill upon which the mighty Durham Cathedral is eventually built. Cuddy rests, yet his connection to the people of the North-East continues, bringing great strength and comfort, not only to those who seek him out, but also those who unexpectedly find themselves drawn to him. 

Myers is a master storyteller and the collection of ‘voices’ we hear throughout the novel are utterly engaging. Much like a traditional short story cycle, each story has its own narrative arc and can be read in and of itself, yet after reading the whole novel, the themes and connections between the characters all fall into place. With Cuddy as the central focal point, and the beautiful coastal landscape and Durham Cathedral as backdrop settings, Myers exquisitely portrays North-East life. Yet this book is not a short story cycle. Nor is it a novel. It is something wonderfully experimental and undefinable. 

Myers gives a voice to the common folk, those most often eradicated from history – the women, the children, the ones who live on the margins, the ones who need the most comfort from their beloved Cuddy. Myers cleverly focuses on spiritual redemption for his characters rather than overtly religious themes, allowing readers to find emotional resonance with the stories, no matter what their own religious beliefs might be.  

At times, the storylines are brutal and harsh, often tense and strange with moments of great sadness. I had instances, when reading, where I had to pause for several minutes, simply to compose my thoughts and overwhelming feelings, so profound was the effect. 

Imaginative, original, and deeply moving, I adored this ‘novel’ and would urge everyone to read it.

About the Reviewer
Kathy Hoyle is a working-class writer form the North-East. Her work has appeared in literary magazines such as The Forge, Fictive Dream, New Flash Fiction Review and the South Florida Poetry Journal. She holds a BA (hons) and an MA in Creative Writing and is currently studying for a PhD at the University of Leicester.