A poem by ethan s. evans, stories by Kelly Link, novels by Solvej Balle and Lily King, and books by Laura Ingalls Wilder

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when they started to build a data center on the infill lot at the end of our road . . . 
—From "you told me you wanted a baby," a prose poem by ethan s. evans, Sixth Finch (Winter 2026). 

At a table nearby three women were talking about a new pocket universe. A new diet. A coworker's new baby; a girl born with no shadow. . . . A long, lubricated conversation followed about over-the-counter shadows—prosthetics, available in most drugstores, not expensive and reasonably durable. 
—From Get in Trouble, a collection of nine stories by Kelly Link (Random House, 2015). This segment is from my favorite story, "Light," which closed the collection (pp. 287-333 in the hardcover). "Light" originally appeared in Tin House (Fall 2007).  

Nothing has changed and there is nothing I have to do. There are no books to be bought, no auctions to attend, no friends to visit. I have no pattern of sounds and silence around which to organize my day, I have no plans, I have no calendar. Time passes, but all it does is pour day after day into my world, it goes nowhere, it has no stops or stations, only this endless chain of days. 
—From On the Calculation of Volume II, a novel by Solvej Balle, translated from the Danish by Barbara J. Haveland (New Directions, 2024). This is the second book in a series of seven and has been published by arrangement with Copenhagen Literary Agency. Originally published as Om udregning af rumfang II (Pelagraf, 2020). The excerpt above is from page 7 of the English-language paperback. 

Plaire is not a wealthy town. It is not one of those immaculate, romantic villages described in books about the south of France. 
—From The Pleasing Hour, a novel by Lily King (Grove Press, 1999). 

Bonus books to read again: 

All winter long, they had been crowded in the little kitchen, cold and hungry and working hard in the dark and the cold to twist enough hay to keep the fire going and to grind wheat in the coffee mill for the day's bread. 
—From Little Town on the Prairie, from the series by Laura Ingalls Wilder (1941). My copy is from Harper Trophy (first printing, 1971) with illustrations by Garth Williams. I've also recently reread Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, On the Banks of Plum Creek, By the Shores of Silver Lake, and The Long Winter (referenced above, in this excerpt which appears toward the beginning of Little Town on the Prairie, on page 3). 

I've read some things about the controversies surrounding these books. I agree that the stories include some shockingly racist language and thoughts (not from Laura herself but from others around her). Even within the books, though, there are multiple disagreements on this topic. In several scenes, Ma, who is a young woman often left alone in the middle of nowhere with tiny children, is clearly terrified of the Native Americans because of stories she's heard, not because of her own real-life interactions, which are largely benign. Pa, on the other hand, seems to have a positive and cordial relationship with the local Native Americans, and he reiterates this multiple times to Ma. 

It doesn't make sense to me to ban or remove or vilify these books or their author, who was of course in every way a product of her time. The stories provide a valuable opportunity to discuss historical differences of all kinds. For example, can we compare women and children's roles in society and in the home between then and now? Thoughts about many things have changed enormously since then. Talking about these differences seems better than pretending that they never existed.

One of the through lines is the significance of a loving family and supportive community. There are many times in these stories when having the help of friends and neighbors means the difference between life and death. The books also emphasize the importance of education and hard work. These values feel as important as ever. 

A set of three novels by Ágota Kristóf, a collection of reinvented fairy tales by Kelly Link, a short story by Devon Halliday, and memoirs by Emilia McKenzie and Mark Vonnegut

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We arrive from the Big Town. We've been traveling all night. Mother's eyes are red. She's carrying a big cardboard box, and the two of us are each carrying a small suitcase containing our clothes, plus Father's big dictionary, which we pass back and forth when our arms get tired. 
—From The Notebook, The Proof, and The Third Lie, a set of three novels by Ágota Kristóf, a Hungarian writer who moved to Switzerland when she was twenty-one. The novels are sometimes referred to collectively as The Notebook Trilogy (Grove Press, 1997). They were translated from the French by, respectively, Alan Sheridan, David Watson, and Marc Romano, and are collected here in one long volume. The books were originally published individually in French as Le grand cahier, La preuve, and Le troisième mensonge (Éditions du Seuil, 1986, 1988, 1991).

Please note: this set of three novels contains a fair amount of violence and themes that may not be for everyone.

The white cat said that she could not possibly consider allowing him to leave for at least another day. And so he spent the evening in the company of cats, playing board games and drinking games, while his dogs lay panting and happy on the flagstones beside the hearth. 
—From White Cat, Black Dog, a collection of seven stories by Kelly Link (Random House, 2023). Each story is preceded by a black and white illustration by Shaun Tan. My favorite stories were the bookends of the collection, "The White Cat's Divorce" and "Skinder's Veil." This excerpt, from "The White Cat's Divorce," appears on page 15 of the paperback. I recommend this book in print and as an audiobook; both versions were excellent. The stories were narrated by, in order, Rebecca Lowman, Dan Stevens, Dominic Hoffman, Kristen Sieh, Ish Klein, Tanya Cubric, and Patton Oswalt (Books on Tape, 2023). 

Frank keeps his eyes moving in their steady rotation, fixing his face in an empty and unsuggestive smile. Whenever he sees the student now he feels a kind of mental tilt, a shiver of precarity, and he has to shake it off like a dream.
—From "Nothing That Counts," a short story by Devon Halliday, One Story, Issue 317 (September 19, 2024)

My dear friend Charlotte died one Wednesday in May 2018. She was 34 years old. . . . A humble comic could never do justice to who she was. It's not really about suicide or mental health, either. 
—From But You Have Friends, a graphic memoir by Emilia McKenzie (Top Shelf Productions, 2023).

June 1969: Swarthmore Graduation. The night before, someone had taken white paint and painted "Commence What?" on the front of the stage. The maintenance crew had dutifully covered it over with red, white, and blue bunting, but we all knew it was there. 
—From The Eden Express, a memoir by Mark Vonnegut (Praeger Publishing, 1975). This book has been reissued in print at least once or twice since then, but I was listening to the audiobook, which was narrated by Pete Cross (Dreamscape Media, 2017).