Novels by Bruna Dantas Lobato and Katie Kitamura, a story collection by Jana Egle, and poetry by Daniel Halpern and Małgorzata Lebda

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Besides plain white bedsheets and a pillow, the only thing I bought for the room was a desk lamp: dark blue, with an adjustable neck, a bit of color standing out against all the shades of beige. When my mom called me on Skype from our apartment on the outskirts of Natal, that's what she saw.
—From Blue Light Hours, a novel by Bruna Dantas Lobato (Black Cat/Grove Atlantic, 2024). 

I saw a flicker of surprise cross [the host's] features as a I pointed [at the young man seated at the back of the restaurant]. He looked quickly from my face to my coat to my jewelry. It was my age, above all. That was the thing that confounded him. He gave a tight smile and asked me to please follow him.
—From Audition, a novel by Katie Kitamura (Riverhead Books, 2025). I listened to this as an audiobook narrated by Traci Kato-Kiriyama, and I would also recommend it in that format. 

Should we take a trip?  
—"Invitation," a poem by Daniel Halpern, The New Yorker (March 11, 2024, pp. 44-45).   

Dita is standing at the window in her home, an opened letter in her hands, waiting for Niks to drive up with their two smallest children. That morning they'd gone to Niks's mother's places to get some potatoes—they didn't have any of their own left.
—From Birthday, a short story collection by Jana Egle, translated from the Latvian by Uldis Balodis (Open Letter, 2025). The book was originally published as Dzimšanas diena (Latvijas Mediji, 2020). This segment is from the story "The Debt," which appears on pages 25-44 of the trade paperback. Please note: this book contains at least two stories that may not be suitable for everyone. 

Night here in the valley spreads out its vigil,
night of one place following after another.
—From "Faithful Animal," a poem by Małgorzata Lebda, translated from the Polish by Mira Rosenthal. Six of Małgorzata Lebda's poems from her book Mer de Glace were translated into English and included, along with a personal essay, in the eleventh installment of the "Literature and Democracy" series from New England Review.

Novels by Susan Choi and Giovana Madalosso, short stories by Mariana Enriquez and Etgar Keret, and a cross-genre book by Marie NDiaye

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Louisa and her father are making their way down the breakwater, each careful step on the heaved granite blocks one step farther from shore. Her mother is not even on the shore, for example seated smiling on the sand. Her mother is shut inside the small almost-waterfront house they are renting, most likely in bed. 
—From Flashlight, a novel by Susan Choi (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2025). 

I'm kidnapping a child. I try to push this thought away, but it keeps coming back as we go down the elevator, say hi to Chico, pass the gates. We do these things every day, go downstairs, say hi to Chico, pass the gates, step on only the black tiles or the white on the sidewalk. But today it's different even if we're not doing anything different, because I know the white army stares at me. Mrs. Fernanda made up this moni­ker, the white army. And she's not wrong, we really look like an army, especially this early in the morning, when they're all in the piazza in their white nanny uniforms . . . 
—From The Tokyo Suite, a novel by Giovana Madalosso, translated from the Portuguese by Bruna Dantas Lobato (Europa Editions, 2025). Originally published in Portuguese as Suíte Tóquio (Todavia, 2020). 

[Silvia] was our "grown-up" friend, the one who took care of us when we went out and who let us use her place to smoke weed and meet up with boys. But we wanted her helpless, ruined, destroyed. Because Silvia always knew more: If one of us discovered Frida Kahlo, oh, Silvia had already visited Frida's house with her cousin in Mexico, before he disappeared. 
—From "Our Lady of the Quarry," a story from The Dangers of Smoking in Bed, a collection of short stories by Mariana Enriquez, translated from the Spanish by Megan McDowell (Hogarth, 2021), pp. 13-25 in the paperback. I first read "Our Lady of the Quarry" when it was published in English in The New Yorker in December 2020. This book was originally published in Spanish as Los peligros de fumar en la cama by Editorial Anagrama in Barcelona, Spain (2017). 

His Tinder profile said his name was Oshik, he was thirty-eight, married with no kids, looking for a serious relationship. Dorit, who wasn't new to online dating, had never come across such an unusual line, and he sounded so square and had such high cheekbones and enormous blue eyes that she was curious enough to give it a try.
—From "Gondola," a short story by Etgar Keret, which was included in his new collection, Autocorrect, translated from the Hebrew by Jessica Cohen and Sondra Silverston (Riverhead Books, 2025). "Gondola" appears on pages 11-22 of the hardcover. My other favorites from this collection were the title story, "Autocorrect" (71-77), "Director's Cut" (107-108), and "Earthquake" (151-159). 

Evening has come, and the Garonne is rising hour after hour in the dark.
          We all know the river can rise nine meters above its banks before it overflows, thanks to the levees surrounding the village.
—From Self-Portrait in Green, a short, cross-genre book by Marie NDiaye, translated from the French by Jordan Stump (Two Lines Press, 2014, 2023). Originally published in French as Autoportrait en vert (Mercure de France, 2005). 

Short stories by Karan Mahajan, Jhumpa Lahiri, T. Coraghessan Boyle, and Camille Bordas

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Meera was recalling the tragedy of her first marriage. Married off to an Indian doctor in 1959, she had moved to London only to discover that her new husband, Ravi, already had a wife in the city. 
—From "The True Margaret," a short story by Karan Mahajan, The New Yorker (August 14, 2023), pp. 52-57. 

I waited for the first few glasses of prosecco before lunch to go to my head, sampled the various appetizers. Then I liked to join the other adults out on the patio for a little fresh air, to smoke a cigarette and comment on the soccer game the kids played without interruption in the yard.
—From "P's Parties," a short story by Jhumpa Lahiri, translated from the Italian by Todd Portnowitz in collaboration with the author, The New Yorker (July 10 & 17, 2023), pp. 44-55. 

His wife wanted to go with him, but her mother was still dying, really taking her time with it, as if it were something to savor. 
—From "The End Is Only a Beginning," a short story by T. Coraghessan Boyle, The New Yorker (August 21, 2023).

I asked him about food, of course, but then I quickly jumped to questions of ambition, of jealousy and envy. Those were the kinds of things that were on my mind at the time. I was seeing too many people around me sign book deals and make connections while I was stuck cataloguing everyone else's successes in hundred-words-or-less reviews for our culture pages. That was my story back then: twenty-four years old and already bitter.
—From "Colorín Colorado," a short story by Camille Bordas (July 10 & 17, 2023), pp. 57-67. 

Short stories by Marianne Villanueva, and novels by Amy Tan, Avdotya Panaeva, Sayaka Murata, and Domenico Starnone

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She's leaning forward, as if to kiss him. There's a mark on his cheek; perhaps she's done it already. They are both smiling. 
          These were my parents in Manila, circa 1956. They were happy; they had always been happy. The happiness of their marriage was like a reproach. 
—From Mayor of the Roses, a collection of short stories by Marianne Villanueva (Miami University Press, 2005). This segment is the opening of "Picture" (pp. 87-92).

[Art's daughters] wore their long chestnut hair alike, pulled into ponytails high on their heads so that they cascaded like fountain spray. All their friends wore their hair in an identical style, Ruth had noticed. When she was their age, she had wanted to grow her hair long the way the other girls did, but her mother made her cut it short. "Long hair look like suicide maiden," LuLing had said. And Ruth knew she was referring to the nursemaid who had killed herself when her mother was a girl. Ruth had had nightmares about that, the ghost with long hair, dripping blood, crying for revenge.  
—From The Bonesetter's Daughter, a novel by Amy Tan (Ballantine, 2001). This is from page 21 of the trade paperback.

In a room lit by a dim candle, they washed the dead body of my six-month-old sister. . . . The room was silent; neither my father nor my mother cried. Only the wet nurse cried—about the gilded cap and fur coat that she had lost due to my sister’s premature death. If the baby had waited five or six months longer to die, the nurse's work would have been through, and the promised reward would not have slipped through her fingers.
—From The Talnikov Family, a novel by Avdotya Panaeva, translated from the Russian by Fiona Bell (Columbia University Press, 2024). 

In the sex education class the next day, though, I was taught something completely different [from what my mother had explained to me]. We were made to watch endless videos about the mechanism of artificial insemination and the mystery of bringing a new life into the world.
—From Vanishing World, a novel by Sayaka Murata, translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori (Grove Press, 2025).

Between the ages of eight and nine, I set out to find the pit of the dead. At school, in Italian class, I had recently learned about the legend of Orpheus and how he travelled to the underworld to bring back his girlfriend, Eurydice, who, unhappily, had wound up there after getting bitten by a snake. My plan was to do the same for a girl who was not my girlfriend but who might be if I managed to lead her back above ground from below . . . 
—From The Mortal and Immortal Life of the Girl from Milan, a novel by Domenico Starnone, translated from the Italian by Oonagh Stransky (Europa Editions, 2024). 

Short stories by Ben Lerner, Hye-young Pyun, and Katherine Heiny; a short novel by Fumiko Enchi; and a graphic novel by Rachel Ang

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Hey I understand you're angry, the first message said. A man's voice, probably a man my age. 
—From "The Ferry," a short story by Ben Lerner, The New Yorker (April 10, 2023), pp. 52-59. 

When he opened the front door—he was leaving on his way to work in the city—a letter fluttered to the ground. The envelope had been stuck in the doorjamb, and it was crumpled as if someone had tried to force it in.
—From the title story of To the Kennels: And Other Stories, a collection by Hye-young Pyun, translated from the Korean by Sora Kim-Russell and Heinz Insu Fenkl (Arcade Publishing, 2024). "To the Kennels" begins on page 25 of the hardcover. An earlier version of this story, translated by Yoosup Chang and Heinz Insu Fenkl, appeared in Azalea: Journal of Korean Literature & Culture, Harvard University, Korea Institute, Vol. 2, Fall 2008. 

On Tuesday night, Sasha and Monique decide to go to the bar where Sasha is supposed to meet [her married lover's wife] and scope it out. It is a shockingly seedy place, even for this high up on Amsterdam Avenue, with decaying wood walls and a dank unpleasant smell.  
—From Single, Carefree, Mellow, a collection of short stories by Katherine Heiny (Knopf, 2015). 

Tsuneo Ibuki and Toyoki Mikamé sat facing one another in a booth in a coffee shop on the second floor of Kyoto Station. 
          Between them on the narrow imitation-wood tabletop were a vase holding a single white chrysanthemum and an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts, suggesting that the two men had been in conversation for some time. 
—From Masks, a novel by Fumiko Enchi, translated from the Japanese by Juliet Winters Carpenter (Vintage Edition, 1983).  

I don't think I believe in leagues. That implies that attraction is more hierarchical than it actually is.
—From I Ate the Whole World to Find You, a graphic novel by Rachel Ang (Drawn & Quarterly, 2025). 

The Spring 2025 issue of the Apple Valley Review

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The Spring 2025 issue of the Apple Valley Review features flash fiction by Madison Ellingsworth and Luke Rolfes; short stories by Peter Newall, Zehra Habib, and Tony Rauch; and poetry by Miriam Van hee (translated from the Dutch by Judith Wilkinson), Athena Kildegaard, Mark Lilley, Mickie Kennedy, and David Armand. The cover artwork is by painter John Singer Sargent.

The Apple Valley Review is a semiannual online literary journal. The current issue, previous issues, subscription information, and complete submission guidelines are available at www.applevalleyreview.org.  

Poetry by Tove Ditlevsen and Tim Seibles, a novella by Anita Desai, and novels by Marie Aubert and Anne Tyler

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He would
in case of divorce
lay claim to half
of everything
he said.
Half a sofa,
half a TV, . . .
—From "Divorce 1," a poem by Tove Ditlevsen, translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell, The Paris Review, Issue 238 (Winter 2021). This poem will be included in There Lives a Young Girl in Me Who Will Not Die, a collection of poetry by Tove Ditlevsen (translated by Smith and Russell, with a foreword by Olga Ravn), which is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux on March 11, 2025.

I couldn't shake what Mum had said about forgiving myself, and even though I'd bought a new dress and had enjoyed so much prosecco that I was drunk by ten o'clock, I checked my phone constantly, I was on it all night long. Not one message came through to tell me how things had gone, the operation should have been over and done with hours earlier. I knew that Mum was punishing me, but still my palms felt clammy, I tried calling her but she wouldn't pick up, and I felt certain that something had gone wrong after all, that they hadn't had a chance to call me, that there was no signal wherever they were, I went outside and tried calling from there, stood on the pavement not far from my friends, who were smoking, and felt as if the ground was collapsing beneath my feet, and I stood there, drunk, sobbing, Mum not picking up, until eventually I hung up.  
—From Grown Ups, a novel by Marie Aubert, translated from the Norwegian by Rosie Hedger (Pushkin Press, 2021). This segment is from page 33 of the paperback.  

as though both trying
to hide and begging
to be seen.
—From "Something Like We Did II," one of three poems by Tim Seibles, Poetry (September 2023). 

All the benches in the Jardín facing the pink spikes and spires of the Parroquia are already taken by lovers of the morning sun, but you find one set back under the meticulously trimmed and shaped trees you are told are Indian laurels, where you can sit making your way at leisure through the Spanish-language newspapers you have bought from the vendor who spreads out a variety of them on the low wall that surrounds the Jardín. . . . Then becoming aware, without wanting to, of a woman seated on a bench across from you, dressed in a flamboyant Mexican style that few Mexican women assume at any other than festive occasions: skirt upon skirt of cotton and tulle in indigo, lime, crimson and saffron, her arms spread over the back of the bench festooned with bangles.   
—From Rosarita, a slim novella by Anita Desai (Scribner, 2025). 

[My father's] watch was a Timex with a face as big as a fifty-cent piece, and whenever my mother kept him waiting he would frown down at it and give it a tap. . . . when I was a little girl, I imagined he was trying to make time move faster—to bring my mother before us instantly, already wearing her coat, like someone in a speeded-up movie. 
—From Three Days in June, a novel by Anne Tyler (Knopf, 2025).