“You can do anything!” claims an unseen narrator before quickly amending that statement. After all “you CAN’T balance ten tacos on top of your head.” “You CAN’T tuna fish so don’t even try.” The imagined consequences—depicted in the accompanying artwork—are hilarious: tacos toppling from a youngster’s head a kid strumming a wary-looking fish. The rest of the examples are equally ridiculous: lifting an elephant with a spoon riding your bike to the moon teaching a potato to dance and expecting a squirrel to sport undies. Some lean into gross-out humor (“You CAN’T fart a rainbow” “You CAN’T knit with nose hair to make a warm sweater”). In a reversal the last few pages encourage readers to attempt whatever far-out feat they want—except hugging a shark. As in many of his previous books Kelley’s artwork relies on firm outlines and both intense and mellow colors. The spring-loaded rhymed text adds to the fun for a combination that will guarantee repeat reading and inspire youngsters to come up with even more outrageous ideas. The children pictured vary in skin tone and hair texture.

Solis closes with descriptions of select poetic forms and an invitation to readers to craft more verses but his own will be hard to match for seemingly effortless grossness. Young people will find everything from “Booger Search and Rescue” (“‘I’m going in’ my finger said / Looking rather brave”) to a tribute to the martial art of “Ka-Fart-Te” that lends whole new meaning to turning the other cheek not to mention verse in praise of “Giggle Farts” scabs (“Picking You”) and “Wet Willy” the pirate. Tidy rhythms and clever wordplay turn each selection into heady ready fare for either solitary enjoyment or sharing with groups of sure-to-be-rapt listeners. Recognizing that gross-out humor can wear thin the poet wisely inserts occasional changes of pace too such as a cozy poem about raising a dust bunny under the bed as a secret pet. Brown opens with a multicultural gallery of young wordsmiths uttering cognates for the titular substance and goes on to add properly comical notes aplenty with a cast of caricatured light- and dark-skinned figures looking variously revolted nauseated or delighted depending on the tone and topic of the accompanying poem.

Thirteen-year-old Domingo José Sepulveda Jr. begins his coming-of-age narrative at his father’s funeral in New York City in 1999. The family came to the U.S. from the Dominican Republic when Domingo was 6 and Papi died of brain cancer before the age of 40. Now Domingo sees Papi in his dreams and as a waking apparition. Papi it seems is going to haunt him in the form of a pigeon until Domingo can process his death. Domingo’s best friend Naño (whose profanity-laced speech adds junior high authenticity) joins his ghostly nighttime adventures in a nearby park. In the Dominican Republic his cousin Matias possesses a magical meteorite that controls nature. Bonifacio juxtaposes these moments of magical realism with scenes of harsh reality such as gun violence at the local basketball courts. Domingo’s beautifully fluid Spanish-infused first-person narration contains literary allusions and rich culturally grounded dialogue and descriptions of family get-togethers (including mouthwatering food). The settings—like Domingo’s Brooklyn neighborhood and Hato Mayor in the Dominican Republic where he lived as a small child—pulse with life and love. Domingo’s personal growth takes place over the course of a year during which he ponders religion and faith as he tries to make sense of adult situations. Humanity shines through in this work that is notable for its cast of memorable well-wrought characters.

The Space Fountain is an intercontinental transportation system with megastructures built in capital cities around the world. These structures contain apartments like the New York station where Aria lives. All stations are split into sections organized by wealth; Aria goes to art school in Section 9 because her father who’s friends with the police commissioner pulled some strings. Meanwhile teenager Vijay hails from Section 20 one of the poorest areas in the Delhi station. When there’s a chance that he’ll be kicked out of said station partially due to his father’s failing health he sneaks onto a shuttle and winds up in New York. As Aria is running for a local political seat (along with several fellow residents including “bankers engineers entrepreneurs eccentric billionaires etc.”) Vijay struggles to find a job and stay healthy lest he be sent to the less-desirable mainland. Elsewhere in the same station Max a cyborg resident gardener seems content but that may change when his lost memories slowly return. Agarwal delivers wonderfully dynamic characters: Vijay earns sympathy with his plight as he leaves behind his mom in Delhi but he also does something that will shock many readers. Max’s hazy past makes him a curious enigma and Aria is generally unlikable thanks to her sense of self-importance and occasional mean-spiritedness. Despite the far-future setting this narrative is topical with a political campaign that turns nasty talk of deportation and the wealthy segregating themselves from those in poverty. As the trio of plotlines gradually intertwine an increasing sense of chaos results in a frenetic final act. Relatively brief chapters and scenes keep the story ticking along even during indeterminate periods of time. A few instances of violence pop up but the author smartly implies them focusing on the consequences rather than the acts themselves.

Ducky the Spy clad in trench coat and trilby hat is back on the beat accompanied by the fabulously flatulent Donny Donkey. As the story begins there’s no particular case to solve but Ducky and Donny have no problem creating one. Easily irritated farm boss Mr. Pig against his better judgment asks the pair to keep an eye on his prize pumpkin in anticipation of its entry into the Big Veggie Contest. Donny gets too close taking a huge bite out of the gigantic pumpkin and Ducky must scramble to find a suitably humongous replacement before Mr. Pig discovers what’s happened. Gretta a giant chicken (and Mr. Pig’s daughter) has an ideal invention primed to solve their problem: a Veg-big-inator Ray. Unfortunately it’s been purloined by the meddling Cat Gang. And so Ducky and Donny’s mission begins with plenty of donkey farts and suspicious glances from the fiendish felines as well as a few delightfully destructive moments of dramatic action. Once more depicting a broadly sketched offbeat cast and matching the previous volume in outlandish plot and jokey outbursts this latest installment is in peak form and ideally suited for fans of Bad Guys or Dog Man. Strong use of paneling pacing and half-tone backgrounds adds a delightful air of comic strip–style lightness.

Contogenis explores themes of family trauma and death in these bittersweet poems. In “Giddy Green” the speaker reflects on the effort to capture fleeting sensations and the ordinariness of daily survival. “In Tandem” explores the changing relationships between mothers and children as they age while “Drachmas for My Father” depicts a paternal reunion; “Ikaria” and “A Sure Thing” document the speaker’s interactions with a dying father. In “What Is It Like to Be a Guinea Pig” the speaker wonders if one guinea pig is mourning its dead companion. “Easier Done” portrays a strained mother-son relationship in which the grown speaker recalls his mother’s controlling care with a mix of resentment and tenderness. The speaker transitions their mother to a “longer-dying / home” in “That Me.” While playing cards with his mom in “Corpsing” the speaker notes the death of their old roles and wonders “is she not // my dear-old unlovable mother?” “View from the Temple at Nas” depicts a modern visitor at an ancient Greek temple who feels out of place. The collection’s scope widens to include cultural references: “The Maltese Falcon” and “The Thing of it” reference films while the final poem “Ikaros” imagines the arc of Icarus from curious boy to doomed daredevil. Contogenis’ work is most impactful when intimately focused on family and its complexities. He bravely names dynamics like “Mommy Cuddles Her Hurt Boy” and intersperses them with tender moments like a mother doing laundry her arms swinging “to join the corners / —freeing one hand to swoop to its first fold. / In no time she’s dancing with shoulders arms and white.” The poet’s language is evocative and original in lines like “listen for blood tapping / along your brittle pipes the radiator rattling / in your chest.” His character descriptions create vivid images like an aging man with “sleek still-black mustache tips.” However some of the poems are so cryptic that readers may struggle to decipher their meaning.

In the opening story “Bazaar Bozorg” a woman living in Toronto returns to Tehran to help the sister who betrayed her trust. “The Late Bloomer” explores the nuances of sex and power while “Kafkaesque” shows a father working through the complications that come with divorce. “The Fruit on the Farthest Branch” offers a touching scene between a father- and son-in-law. “After the Election” “The Naked Dream” and “Dayi” all invoke the specter of violence political and domestic that lurk in everyday life. Ironically the title story is one of the weakest. But overall these dozen stories depict a fascinating array of Iranians mostly in the diaspora journeying through 21st-century life. These characters usually erudite—Ph.D. candidates librarians and the like as well as parents and siblings who have joined them in Canada or remained in Tehran—manage entanglements with lovers exes spouses siblings and friends. One of the characters in “Stray Dandelions” has a motto that also defines a central preoccupation of the book: “stay and perish; leave and flourish.” While this sentiment may ring familiar to many diasporic communities author Kashani grounds his stories in cultural and historic specificity without necessarily leaning on identity as a primary undercurrent. His writing style is straightforward and the lack of fuss makes these stories compulsively readable. He tends to dive right in to his main concern the relationship dynamics among his characters and the intrigue lies in their interactions with one another their actions and reactions in the environments where they’ve chosen to live for better or worse rather than in flowery language or experiments with form.

It’s July of 1862 and Montgomery “Monty” Tolliver one of the beleaguered president’s most trusted advisers is sitting in Lincoln’s office. Today Lincoln wants to hear Monty’s thoughts about how his Proclamation should be structured—should it apply only to the slave states the border states or to the whole country? And when should it be rolled out? Both men agree that the announcement should wait until they’ve achieved a Union victory. (“Changed circumstances require new thinking different strategies” Monty offers.) Meanwhile across town newspaper reporter Robert Geddis has just returned from covering the Union’s defeat in the battle for Richmond. The survivor of tragic family losses Robert is now achieving success as a battlefield reporter for the Evening Star; his reports are said to be so detailed that Lincoln himself has requested that his articles be placed on his desk every day. In a Virginia medical tent Robert’s friend from his time in Kansas Billy Rutledge is recovering from battlefield injuries. Billy originally from Mississippi has been living in Texas under the name Ezekiel Colton and serves as a major in the Fifth Texas Regiment of the Confederacy’s Army of Northern Virginia. The novel’s fourth protagonist is Monty’s adopted 16-year-old son Josh Tolliver. Although he’s underage Josh has just enlisted in the Union Army. Haynes’ vibrant Civil War drama is depicted through the experiences of each of these four men as they reckon with the brutality of war and navigate behind-the-scenes political machinations. The narrative includes heavy doses of gritty battlefield action. Descriptions of Lincoln’s frustration with his generals particularly the overly cautious George McClellan offer plenty of intriguing if occasionally belabored historical tidbits but the heart of the novel is the personal tribulations of the four protagonists. These characters are vivid and memorable—when Ezekiel grows disillusioned with the war and General Lee’s attack on Maryland he becomes an unsung hero as Haynes adds a clever fictional twist to a longstanding Civil War mystery.

Despite her brief moment of internet fame after catching a killer at a crime writing festival in A Novel Murder (2025) Jane is without an agent or publisher and suffering from writer’s block. Still she has journeyed from Cumbria to London’s Willow Tree Books to celebrate the publication of a debut thriller by her new friend Natasha Martez. Joining Jane at the festive literary party is Daniel Thurston now a publicity assistant at Polar Bear Publishing Natasha’s publisher. But once again murder finds the strikingly tall but socially awkward writer when she stumbles upon not one but two locked-room crimes. In the bookstore’s storeroom she discovers the body of Daisy Olsson assistant to noted editor Hugo Strauss. Then Jane finds Hugo dead in his secret study. Besides their work association is there another connection between the two victims? As before Jane teams up with Natasha and Daniel to identify the culprit while irritating the local police detective. This meandering second outing by a former publishing professional lacks the lively spark and comic spirit that made the first book so enjoyable. Flatly drawn characters and a plotline that drags every which way make for a sometimes-tiresome read. But Jane remains a compelling protagonist as she tries to rebuild her life and resurrect her writing career.

Introducing the main characters of “The Axe” the narrator—omniscient omnipotent and jaded—suddenly pauses: “But none of that matters because these aren’t real people and it’s hard enough to hold onto your own memories without holding onto theirs.” Some of Row’s characters are aware that they’re characters; some of his narrators struggle against the constraints of their own roles. (“None of these details are accurate by the way” says the first-person narrator of “The Sliding Door” midscene.) Stories that don’t explicitly satirize or deconstruct literary or literary-world conventions (see “Meditation for a Small Audience” or “Reading Group Guide”) explore storytelling meaning-making representation in other ways: In “Late Blues” two women contend with the legacy of a Black quiltmaker whose work was revered. In “Young Adult” a pair of teenagers engineer and then livestream robot sex. Throughout all this Row references Beckett Lukács Marshall McLuhan and other literary theorists but also seems to emphasize the ultimate futility—the tedium really—of all that theorizing about something we seem unable to finally quit. We go on telling stories—in books at the dinner table to ourselves. This is implied by the very fluidity of Row’s prose: Even as he (or his narrators) perform a kind of ironic detachment—“As if what happens to me matters to anyone else except to flatter their own better judgment. The story is arrogant; the story is an elaborate inside joke”—you can’t stop reading. In other words Row’s storytelling is masterful even as he tears down the very tropes that stories are defined by. Some stories are stronger than others (“Dear Yale” feels particularly bloodless) but as a whole the book is brilliantly conceived and executed.

British academic/researcher Challenger (How To Be Animal 2017) takes off from and frequently returns to Aristotle’s thinking in this wide-ranging sometimes confounding meditation on theories of what distinguishes life from non-life. For Aristotle and for Challenger life resides in the individual organism—whether plant animal or other—navigating in a world of other organisms as well as non-living elements and forces. She adopts his term “psyche” interpreting it as meaning a “goal-directed self-regulating living body” and takes off from it to speculate on the existence of a “psychosphere” “a realm of intention perception and responsiveness that overlaps and interacts with the material world.” Dipping into the work of multiple scientists and philosophers she devotes much of the book to arguing that life and intelligence are by their nature embodied whether in the simplest of organisms or in human beings and that thoughts of anything like a soul or consciousness separate from the body are misguided. She also makes a case that artificial intelligence—which she believes ought to be called “artificial obedience”—belongs to the realm of the mechanical and material rather than the living. At times Challenger seems to have bitten off more than she can chew: A long chapter on the various theories of the origins of life on Earth adds little to her argument and bogs down in a recognition of the “formidable challenges when it comes to considering life’s origins.” However she is at her best when delving into the intricacies of life as a sequoia tree or a bee or making her readers question their assumptions of life as it is subjectively experienced rather than attempting a grand synthesis of its meaning.

After finding a love that was more than she’d ever hoped for Claire Sutherland finds herself alone again. A boating accident left her a deeply traumatized orphan. A mysterious neurological ailment took her fiancé. When Elias’ mother invites her to their home for a memorial service Claire hesitates at first. She’s never met any of Elias’ relatives because he wanted nothing to do with them. But the lure of family is too strong for Claire to resist so she accepts the invitation to the Ashbury clan’s island compound. “Looming above everything like a dragon on its hoard” Harrow Point is a massive assemblage of spires and gables carved into a cliff. What Claire doesn’t see from the outside is the labyrinthine rooms that spiral down into the dark depths of the ocean. Whitten has assembled all the essentials for a gothic novel. There’s an isolated and endangered heroine. There are family secrets that won’t stay hidden. And the setting is the perfect blend of the sublime and the uncanny. What this novel lacks is compelling characters and persuasive worldbuilding. There’s one character in this story who has depth and it’s not the protagonist. It is instead Elias’ brother Ash and Claire’s refusal to recognize that he’s trying to help her gets annoying fast. She’s grieving she longs to be part of a family again and nothing she learned about Ash from Elias makes her inclined to trust her fiancé’s older brother. That said Claire is dense to the point of being ridiculous and scenes that should be terrifying aren’t. One reason gothic novels are often set in the past is that this makes it easier for readers to suspend disbelief. Whitten’s contemporary setting means that the more the reader learns about the Ashbury family’s dark secrets the less plausible they become.

Poppy and Granddad’s Sunday tradition involves whipping up recipes from scratch. Not only does Granddad cook he also collects memories and recipes from the whole family which he documents in a scrapbook. Poppy loves hearing his stories about the rest of the family—and is especially excited to try making Great-Great-Granddad’s famous sweet potato pie. So this Sunday Poppy and Granddad head to the farmers market for the necessary ingredients. Semmer’s warm flat digitally rendered illustrations let the colorful patterned pages of the family recipe book and Poppy’s hand-drawn shopping list pop off the page. And the farmers market—with its large sunflowers and freshly baked breads—offers a delightful detour. Back in the kitchen Poppy sports a green-and-white polka-dotted apron and Granddad a cream-colored one as they begin baking. Characters in this loving Black family differ in hairstyle and skin tone; shifts from closeup spot illustrations of Granddad and Poppy prepping the meal to an overhead full-page spread of the dinner table make for a visually dynamic depiction of family. Appended are two recipes (sweet potato pie and a perhaps much easier sweet apple heart).

What is one to do upon discovering that a favorite artist is a monster? That’s one of the questions that Dixon an assistant professor of philosophy at Cardiff University grapples with in this provocative work. Her goal is “to take you on a journey through the history of immoral art exploring some of the most controversial and volatile works humanity has ever produced” from “erotic literature that has inspired murderers” to “beautiful paintings created by paedophiles.” Dixon compares the concept of depraved art to a “Hydra of five screeching heads” and identifies five areas of closer investigation: the varying definitions throughout history of what constitutes obscenity; art that incites or is believed to have incited criminal behavior; cultural products that “prop up systems of oppression” by objectifying women as in Édouard Manet’s Le déjeuner sur l’herbe (1863) or suggesting the inferiority of people of color; immoral artists whose works are meant to malign or demean as when Paul Gauguin a predator who “used his colonial privilege to sexually abuse girls as young as thirteen” painted Spirit of the Dead Watching (1892) “the depiction of a dark-skinned girl in an abusive relationship with an older white man”; and the question of works in which acts of cruelty are part of their creation from “the problematic use of ivory in medieval sculpture across the world to twentieth-century conceptual art that involves setting live animals on fire.” She concludes with a timely chapter on authoritarian attempts to manipulate culture by “not only targeting the art of persecuted groups but driving out any cultural products which threaten their totalitarian power” from Nazi book burnings to President Trump’s “Orwellian” attacks on American museums. Whatever one’s opinion on the question of whether one can or should separate the art from the artist readers will find much to ponder in this well-researched effort.

An omniscient narrator explains that Shy (who’s white with brown patches) is “the smallest and quietest pup at the shelter. She seldom made a sound.” When a light-skinned man with floppy brown hair visits the shelter and says that he’s looking for a dog “who can keep me company and help me concentrate while I work” Shy seems like a natural fit. And she is—initially. But when the man who is a pianist tells Shy that he must practice she’s all kinds of disruptive: “At first she gave a small whine. Then a soft woof under her breath. Then…‘Ow-WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’” The man tries to divert Shy so he can prepare for an upcoming concert but it’s no use: She keeps yowling along as he plays. The tale's ending is fairly inevitable but it’s heartwarming nonetheless and it can also be taken as a gentle rebuke to artistic rigidity. Andrews and Hamilton have blended their voices into a graceful storytelling instrument and Byrne’s pen-and-ink art has a timeless quality channeling the urbanity of Hilary Knight’s work in the likewise New York–set Eloise books. An authors’ note reveals that Shy is based on a poodle Andrews owned years ago who also liked to make herself heard.

After a meteoric rise within the National Ballet Theatre Zahara Douglass a 21-year-old Black ballerina has the life she always dreamed of. But Zahara is emotionally detached haunted by a fissure in reality that only she seems able to remember: When she was 16 she saw her twin sister Annica get into a car and disappear. Moments later history seemed to rewrite itself—without Annica. Now Zahara’s return to her hometown of Modesto California for a performance sparks painful memories and fuels her determination to seek answers. The looming threat of the Y2K millennium bug creates a sense of unease and danger in contrast to prose filled with movement reflecting Zahara’s identity as a dancer. Characters stridently debate whether technology isolates people or connects them with no consensus. Teaming up with a private investigator Theo Morgan Zahara digs deeper into a past that doesn’t seem to exist and finds evidence of fantastical abilities. The author weaves together threads of myth and technology interspersing evocative tape recordings that Zahara’s late father left her along with entries from Annica’s computer diary bringing these characters’ vitality to the page. Zahara and Theo’s travels through California in search of answers unfold with echoes of a noir mystery saturated with the ever-present question of who to trust and how much. Zahara’s quest for the truth unearths one of the book’s central preoccupations: What would you sacrifice for those you love and are you prepared to live with the consequences?

Ever since Roxana’s mum died in a car accident four years ago her father hasn’t been the same. When he accepts a job in America it seems to offer a second chance at happiness. Roxana’s older sister Azar stays in England while she and her younger brother Ehsan travel with Dad—although in just six weeks Roxana will head to London for university. Since childhood Roxana has struggled with sleep paralysis; it intensified after Mum’s death. Newly arrived in Colorado she has a recurring nightmare in which she and a beautiful golden-haired boy are hunted down and die tragically—this time they’re tied up and burned at the stake. Terrifyingly her dreams are manifesting into reality. Not only are Roxana’s wrists bruised when she awakens as if they’d been bound together but she later encounters Zain an Iranian American teen who looks exactly like the boy from her dreams. When Roxana witnesses Zain killing a creature in an alley her life changes irrevocably. She learns about a hidden family secret the centurieslong bond between herself and Zain—and their impending doom. Unfortunately Zain’s character is too lightly developed to make the love story convincing. Uneven pacing and worldbuilding that feels forced and rushed result in a densely packed stand-alone novel that would have benefitted from being expanded into a duology.

Math unnerves Nikhil who prefers art storytime and gardening. But Nikhil’s teacher Ms. Oates suggests that the youngster write letters to math (“She thinks it will help us be friends. It won’t”). Over time Nikhil’s hostility (“You make my tummy hurt” “I still don’t want to be friends”) turns to curiosity and even passion. Told entirely through letters the book spans a school year as Nikhil begins to realize math is everywhere. Shapes like octagons are all around us; folding snowflakes helps the child learn about symmetry—and lets the youngster fuse a love of art with an appreciation for math. Turns out that astronauts also use math—another career path for Nikhil. Humor and clever wordplay drive the narrative (“Did you hear the one about the hen who counts her eggs every day? She is a brilliant mathemachicken” riffs Nikhil at one point). Haldar makes clear that the child’s dislike of math is rooted in a fear of messing up—something that will resonate with many students. But she emphasizes math is about more than getting the right answers; it’s about passion and discovery. Martinez’s energetic artwork has a childlike flair (doodles appear on Nikhil’s letters) while also clarifying the concepts discussed. Brown-skinned Nikhil is cued South Asian.

Three siblings look ahead to a long weekend with older sister ’Tea in charge while Momma is working. Middle child Taylor is delighted that morning to find the titular postcard in the kitchen. Indeed the whole neighborhood is abuzz with excitement over the opportunity to exchange their postcards for a surprise box “filled to the brim with wonder and possibility.” Taylor’s particularly excited about the possibility of finding “fancy little macaroni” in her box and she declares “This time I’m going to be the first in line!” As ’Tea holds their baby sister Taylor takes the lead to the pick-up point gleefully greeting and kindly helping others along the way while recalling memories of boxes past. When Taylor’s family finally receives their box Taylor’s initial disappointment at the lack of macaroni is quickly rectified by generous Ms. Penny who hands over a package of the pasta. Momma already home is ready to create “magic... and macaroni!” Allen’s pages are vivid with colorful energy her contagiously expressive characters thoroughly diverse in skin tone (Taylor is brown-skinned ’Tea beige-skinned and their baby sister pale-skinned). Her thoughtful author’s note highlights the “great shame around food insecurity” and reveals she was once one of those hungry children. She poignantly dedicates the book to her younger self.

Despite efforts to bring them up to speed readers unfamiliar with the series opener may flounder as the mildly surreal continuing storyline takes a few more dizzying spins in this second entry. Being the last of the murderous Paladins still at liberty after Rodeo’s application of the Plunger of Truth bad guy Athelstan concocts an uncharacteristically clever ploy to steal the powers of the “fiendish tweenzilla” who wielded it by exploiting her friendship with the multiverse’s last living Sidney—newest and only boy member of her closely knit posse the Daughters of Mayhem. The trap is sprung naturally just as a tiff has Sidney questioning the depth of that friendship. Breakneck visual pacing and the frequent use of silent sequences and reaction shots to enhance both comical and dramatic moments give Miles’ cleanly drawn frames an appealing cinematic feel as events hurtle toward a tumultuous climax. At the head of a cast that is thanks to incremental differences between worlds wildly multicolored and multispecies the two brown-skinned leads come through swimmingly for one another—and also deal just deserts to Athelstan with an assist from Rodeo’s large and astonishingly versatile wad of bubble gum.