A story collection by Fumio Yamamoto, a novel by Solvej Balle, short stories by Camille Bordas and Emma Cairns Watson, and a poem by D. Nurkse

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As it was my birthday, our table was covered with plates and glasses from the full-course meal and a bottle of wine we usually would never order. In the seven years we'd been together, we'd had our share of arguments, but this was the first time the atmosphere between us had become so charged and heavy.
—From The Dilemmas of Working Women, a collection of five stories by Fumio Yamamoto, translated from the Japanese by Brian Bergstrom (HarperVia, 2025). The book was originally published in Japanese as Planaria (Bungeishunju Ltd., 2000). Also, just a quick shoutout to the hardcover jacket designer, Sarah Kellogg, who used a photograph by Ulas & Merve (Merve Türkan and Ulaş Kesebir, a pair of London-based Turkish photographers who work together professionally). The cover is quite striking. Along with reading the print book, I listened to the audiobook, which was narrated by Yuriri Naka. I really like listening to her. She narrated a different book that I listened to in 2025: Hunchback, a short novel by Saou Ichikawa (Hogarth, 2025). The HarperCollins page for The Dilemmas of Working Women has a sample of the audiobook as well as a sample of the print book. The segment above is from the title story and appears on page 162 of the hardcover. 

It is the eighteenth of November. I have got used to that thought. I have got used to the sounds, to the gray morning light and to the rain that will soon start to fall in the garden.
—From On the Calculation of Volume I, a novel by Solvej Balle, translated from the Danish by Barbara J. Haveland (New Directions, 2024). This is the first book in a series of seven and has been published by arrangement with Copenhagen Literary Agency. Originally published as Om udregning af rumfang I (Pelagraf, 2020).

Repatriation—there's such a ring to it, such drama. I imagined maimed bodies in dirty tents, nurses changing brown, bloodied gauze, bending over beds to tell the wounded, "The call came in—you're going home." Yet I worked in Special Consular Services at our Embassy in Paris. The Americans I helped repatriate mostly broke legs in Pigalle or crashed rental cars in Normandy. 
—From "Chicago on the Seine," a short story by Camille Bordas, The New Yorker (June 17, 2024), pp. 46-52. 

Nadine had selected this service in particular because it was the only one that did not require you to submit your name or photograph. All you had to do was provide your phone number and your answer to the question, "If you had the opportunity to dissect another person, who would it be, and which part of their insides would you be most interested in looking at?"
—From "The Dissection Question," a short story by Emma Cairns Watson, One Story, Issue 310 (February 29, 2024).

There was a protest outside Thomas Jefferson 
and children were lying down histrionically, . . . 
—From "The Age of Miracle Weapons," a poem by D. Nurkse, The New Yorker (June 10, 2024), p. 43. 

Novels by Narine Abgaryan, Brenda Lozano, and Wallace Stegner, and graphic novels by Mimi Pond and Zuo Ma

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On Friday, just past noon, after the sun had rolled past its lofty zenith and begun sliding sedately toward the western edge of the valley, Anatolia Sevoyants lay down to breathe her last.
—From Three Apples Fell from the Sky, a novel by Narine Abgaryan, translated from the Russian by Lisa C. Hayden (Oneworld Publications, 2020). Originally published in Russian as С неба упали три яблока by AST Publishers, Moscow, in 2015.

On the morning of January 22, 1946, Gloria Felipe left the house wearing a pale blue dress with a matching bolero jacket and a navy hat; she carried a white purse under one arm and with the other held the hand of her daughter, the only one of her five children still too young to attend school. Little Gloria Miranda Felipe had turned two just three weeks earlier and that morning had gone with her mother to drop her siblings off in a new white dress with yellow flowers embroidered on the chest, made especially for her by her grandmother Ana María as a birthday gift.
—From Mothers, a novel by Brenda Lozano, translated from the Spanish by Heather Cleary (Catapult, 2025). 

Sally is still sleeping. I slide out of bed and go barefooted across the cold wooden floor. The calendar, as I pass it, insists that it is not the one I remember. It says, accurately, that it is 1972, and that the month is August. 
          The door creaks as I ease it open. Keen air, gray light, gray lake below, gray sky through the hemlocks whose tops reach well above the porch. More than once, in summers past, Sid and I cut down some of those weedlike trees to let more light into the guest cottage. All we did was destroy some individuals, we never discouraged the species. The hemlocks like this steep shore. Like other species, they hang on to their territory.
—From Crossing to Safety, a novel by Wallace Stegner (Random House, 1987).  

I had no practice at [breaking up with someone], so I did it over the phone. / My mom and my brother hated me. I didn't care. / That song had stopped! / I was so relieved . . . / that I went out and slept with the first whacked-out hippie I could find.
—From The Customer Is Always Wrong, a graphic novel by Mimi Pond (Drawn & Quarterly, 2017). 

Actually, all of this will be demolished. / There's going to be a factory here and the government is buying the land. Everyone's adding floors to their houses so they'll get more compensation. / You see those high-rises on the hill? Everyone will relocate there. 
—From Night Bus, a graphic novel by Zuo Ma, translated from the Mandarin by Orion Martin (Drawn & Quarterly, 2021). Originally published in Mandarin by Paper Farm Publishing. This omnibus volume was originally published as two separate books: Walk, a short story anthology (2013) and Night Bus, a graphic novel (2018). It helps to know that going in. 

Novellas by Irène Némirovsky and Roberto Bolaño, a graphic novel by Anna Härmälä, a story by Marcie Malone, and a story collection by Elaine Hsieh Chou

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I'm not talking about François and Hélène Erard, of course; I have never been in a home more pleasant, welcoming, intimate, warm and happy than theirs. But, in spite of everything, my idea of the perfect evening is this: I am completely alone; my housekeeper has just put the hens in their coop and gone home, and I am left with my pipe, my dog nestled between my legs, the sound of the mice in the attic, a crackling fire, no newspapers, no books, a bottle of red wine warming slowly on the hearth. 
—From Fire in the Blood, a novella by Irène Némirovsky, translated from the French by Sandra Smith (Knopf hardcover, 2007; Vintage paperback, 2008). Originally published in Paris, France, as Chaleur du sang by Denoël in 2007.

Now I am a mother and a married woman, but not long ago I led a life of crime. My brother and I had been orphaned. Somehow that justified everything. 
—From A Little Lumpen Novelita, a novella by Roberto Bolaño, translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer (New Directions, 2014). Originally published by Mondadori as Una novelita lumpen in 2002.

He opened Poets and Painters to the classifieds. "Look here," he said, handing me my reading glasses. The right lens was greasy with chocolate wax. I soldiered on. This too is marriage.
—From "My Husband Told Me to Write a Story," a story by Marcie Malone, Fiction Attic (December 17, 2025). 

Finnish mothers get given a baby box by the state, and it's great. You get clothes, blankets, diapers, condoms . . . / and the box doubles as a safe bed for your baby. / Since the 1970s, the state has also given you a poster to remind parents to smile through the pain. 
—From Single Mothering, a graphic novel by Anna Härmälä (Nobrow, an imprint of Flying Eye Books Ltd., London, 2024). I know this isn't the focus of the book, but there are some notable differences between having a baby in Finland vs. the US, as evidenced in this segment (from page 47), where Mia is given a box of supplies. 

At the rear of the shop, down a dim hallway, was a studio where the manager lived with his wife, separated from the kitchen only by a curtain of wooden beads. They had worked for my grandparents for as long as LaLa could remember. I was introduced to them the way we were to all adults: "ShuShu" for men and "Ayi" for women. I never knew their real names. 
—From Where Are You Really From, a collection of six short stories and a novella by Elaine Hsieh Chou (Penguin Press, 2025). I listened to the audiobook, which was narrated by Joel de la Fuente, Imani Jade Powers, Katharine Chin, and Natalie Naudus. This segment, which appears on page 7, is from "Carrot Legs," which was previously published (in a slightly different form) in Guernica.  

Fiction by Yoko Ogawa and Souvankham Thammavongsa, and graphic novels by Lee Lai and Fumio Obata

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I'm not sure how [Mina] came to love matchboxes the way she did or why the adults around her never put a stop to her obsession, despite the danger involved. But by the time I arrived at the house in Ashiya, it was clear that there was always a box of matches in Mina's pocket and that it was her responsibility to light the gas burner to heat the bath, to light the oil lamp in the light-bath room, and to light the candles when the electricity went out or for a special dinner.
—From Mina's Matchbox, a novel by Yoko Ogawa, translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder (Pantheon, 2024). This story first appeared as a newspaper serialization in Japan as "Mina no Koshin" by Yomiuri Shimbun (2005). Originally published in book form in Japan as Mina no Koshin by Chuokoron-Shinsha, Inc., Tokyo (2006). The segment above is from page 81 of the hardcover. 

He was a bartender. He could make a drink for you, if you wanted. All you had to do was lean over and ask.
—From "Bozo," a short story by Souvankham Thammavongsa, The New Yorker (April 8, 2024), pp. 50-52. 

Everyone is ugly. I should know. I look at people all day.
—From Pick a Color, a novel by Souvankham Thammavongsa (Little, Brown and Company, 2025). 

Oh if I was a rat / oh if I was a rat / I'd live in the trees / 'cuz a scary-ass rat / can do what she please
—From Stone Fruit, a graphic novel by Lee Lai (Fantagraphics Books, 2021). This song (by one of the "fun weirdo aunties") is on pages 36 and 37.

Mountaineering is a popular sport in Japan. However, people tend to forget how dangerous it can be . . .
—From Just So Happens, a graphic novel by Fumio Obata (Abrams ComicArts, 2015). This segment is from page 60, but the artwork is the standout of this book. There are samples on the publisher's listing. 

The Fall 2025 issue of the Apple Valley Review

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The Fall 2025 issue of the Apple Valley Review features short stories by Jack Jenkins, Timo Teräsahjo (translated from the Finnish by the author), Sohana Manzoor, Daniel Southwell, and Daniel Choe; poetry by Steph Sundermann-Zinger, Ekaterina Kostova (translated from the Bulgarian by Holly Karapetkova), Luis Alberto de Cuenca (translated from the Spanish by Gustavo Pérez Firmat), Mario dell’Arco (translated from the Romanesco by Marc Alan Di Martino), DS Maolalai, and P M F Johnson; a prose poem by Paul Dickey; and a piece of creative nonfiction by Yi Li. The cover image is by French photographer Jacques Dillies.

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.   

Novels by Domenico Starnone and Claire Adam, stories by Kaori Fujino, and comics by Nathan W. Pyle

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I was on my way to the beach, having slept poorly the night before due to the strong wind. . . . I felt confused, out of sorts, maybe I was unwell again, and in that moment of disoriented stillness, the only thing that moved was a small figure outlined in gold: it wasn't a body, a whirlwind of dust, or a flash of light, but a presence, and it ran past me down the steps and burrowed into the sand a little further on. 
—From The Old Man by the Sea, a novel by Domenico Starnone, translated from the Italian by Oonagh Stransky (Europa Editions, 2025). Originally published as Il vecchio al mare by Giulio Einaudi Editore, Torino, Italy (2024). 

We'd be traveling by night, and anything that might catch in torchlight had to be covered, including my own skin. The Trinidad and Tobago Coast Guard was one difficulty, the Guardia Nacional on the Venezuelan side was another, but the worst problem was bandits. Bandits would steal the engine off the back of the boat and leave you out there to drift, or they would take the whole boat, and throw you in the sea. I also had a pillowcase to go over my head: the reflection of torchlight against things like eyeballs and teeth had been known to give people away. 
—From Love Forms, a novel by Claire Adam (Hogarth, 2025). (I didn't realize initially that "Forms" is being used here as a verb. The title is from the end of a poem called "The Fortress" by Louise Glück.) After the opening section, I found this to be a slow, rhythmic book, very introspective. I also listened to the audiobook, narrated by Melanie La Barrie. One of my favorite sections of this book, both in print and audio, was the part about Auntie Pam (in Chapter 8, pp. 104-109 in the hardcover). 

"I can't marry you." That's what my father told you on the first day of his affair with you. You were so surprised all you could say was, "Oh." My father went on, with what seemed to be genuine regret, that he had a wife and child. 
—From Nails and Eyes, a short collection by Kaori Fujino, translated from the Japanese by Kendall Heitzman (Pushkin Press, 2023). The Japanese version was originally published in Tokyo by Shinchosa Publishing Co., Ltd., in 2013. The book includes the title story, excerpted above, which is about ninety pages long, and two additional short stories. 

-You must position those [cards] so that you can observe them but I cannot
- OK
- You do not want me to know what you know
- I will be discreet with my knowledge
—From Strange Planet, a collection of comics by Nathan W. Pyle (Morrow Gift, an imprint of William Morrow/HarperCollins, 2019). There is also a follow-up, Stranger Planet (2020). 

Short stories by Lily King, Akhil Sharma, and Kang Young-sook; a novel by Yun Ko-eun; and a poem by Cal O'Reilly

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Socially we balanced each other out. He was the guy who came into the room and everyone was relieved. I made people deeply uneasy, myself most of all. If we hadn't shared a room I would have been one of those guys on our hall that got a nod from him in the stairwell, maybe a bit of banter at the sink shaving, but no 2 a.m. arguments about transubstantiation or Bret Easton Ellis. 
—From Five Tuesdays in Winter, a collection of short stories by Lily King (Grove Press, 2021). This segment is from "Hotel Seattle" (pp. 150-168 in the hardcover). Lily King's story "When in the Dordogne" is one of my favorite stories that I've ever read in One Story. Based on that, I bought this collection when it was first released (back in 2021, apparently!) and it has been languishing in my TBR pile ever since. Recently, I read the book and listened to the audiobook, which has various narrators and is excellent (Blackstone Publishing). If you're looking for stories that could be described as quietly devastating, I'd recommend a few from the middle of the collection: "North Sea," "Hotel Seattle," and "Waiting for Charlie." 

Yona went down to Jinhae on Friday evening. Jungle—the travel company where she worked as a programming coordinator—didn't currently offer any travel packages to visit the post-tsunami rubble, but it would soon. 
—From The Disaster Tourist, a novel by Yun Ko-eun, translated from the Korean by Lizzie Buehler (Counterpoint, 2020). The English translation was first published in Great Britain by Serpent's Tail, an imprint of Profile Books Ltd. The book was first published in Korean by Minumsa (2013). I listened to the audiobook, which was narrated by Natalie Naudus (also Blackstone Publishing). Strangely, I felt like most of the marketing materials were describing a completely different book. To me, it was more about selfishness and greed (both corporate and personal) within the context of disaster tourism and, I guess, tourism more generally. 

Mrs. Graeber walked around the class checking on our progress. By this time, Ritu had pinned the organs to the wax of the workbench, and they looked the way they appeared in the drawings: the heart, the kidneys, the stomach. Mrs. Graeber asked Ritu who had done what. Ritu and I were both standing. I said that I had done the measurements. Ritu looked down and didn't speak.
—From "Ritu," a piece of flash fiction by Akhil Sharma, The New Yorker (online August 28, 2025). 

Right then two children sprung out from the east entrance of the apartment. Both were wearing long padded jackets and masks decorated with animal faces. Holding hands, they walked across the field and stepped onto the sidewalk. They glanced at us as they walked past. . . . I raised my hand in an awkward wave. Ignoring me, they quickly walked along the narrow road, still holding hands. Each time a truck hurtled past them, I couldn't help holding my breath. 
—From At Night He Lifts Weights, a collection of short stories by Kang Young-sook, translated from the Korean by Janet Hong (Transit Books, 2023). Originally published in Korea by Changbi Publishers, Inc. (2011). This segment is from "From Mullae," the first story in the collection. 

I didn't think about the texture of your hair 
or your stubble on my cheek
—From "I went to the library and I didn't think about" by Cal O'Reilly, from Beginnings Over and Over: Four New Poets from Ireland, selected by Leeanne Quinn (Dedalus Press, 2025).