“She is as thin as a thread of spider’s silk, a mere gauze of a person. Freckles scattered across her like raindrops on parched earth, a petite scar nestled above her eyebrow, vibrant teeth flashing with moisture. When I blink, her features seem to blur and melt, like a painting left out in the rain. Her right side is streaked with wounds identical to fresh tarmac, a tear in her attire revealing the severity of her injury. She has a bruise on her temple, ominously dark from a result of her skull collapsing inwards. A graceful smile graces her lips as she turns towards me, a visible cloud of yellow smoke surrounding her. She’s my dear friend.”
This intriguing description is found on the first page of Jenny Valentine’s latest book, ‘Us in the Before and After’ (published by Simon & Schuster, available for £8.99). The novel is a quirky story about an unusual summer shared by two friends, with a twist – one of them isn’t alive anymore. Valentine, a British author, is known for her distinctive writing style that delights her fans. She has been collecting accolades and praise for her literature for young adults since her 2007 release ‘Finding Violet Park’. New fans can’t wait to explore her previous works.
The protagonist Elk and her confidant Mab are described as ‘entangled particles’, an elegant metaphor utilized consistently in the book. An event occurred before the summer that changed everything between them. Elk had concealed a secret, and the aftermath of this deception has seemingly led to the present circumstances. The narrative is held down by incisive teenage societal commentary; at one point, Elk acknowledges the silent benefit of being ‘left alone’ in school: “I realised swiftly that I could exhibit my true self without repercussions. I question if anything else offered within these school walls could surpass this.”
This book’s candid and ghostly undertones might move you to tears, while you revel in the beauty of its prose and sharp discernment. This read is well worth it for its unique approach to YA literature, displaying its breadth from commercial page-turners to subtler, emotionally-charged literary works.
Quoted from thriller author Andrea Mara: “My mother-in-law heralded in Ireland as the first female private detective, and my spouse assisted her on cases.”
Charlie Castelletti’s anthology, He, She, They, Us: Queer Poems (Macmillan, £18.99), spans the commercial-literary range, featuring both “internet-famous” and classical poets (nod to Whitman, Auden, and Marlowe). It would be simplistic and diminishing to presume that a socially popular poem ought to be simple, or that an older text implies depth solely due to its formal language that resembles an exam’s study material. Some of the best pieces here, like Jay Hulme’s Jesus at the Gay Bar, have gained significant online attention. Likewise, the inclusion of the always admirable Nikita Gill is greatly welcomed.
However, the anthology is not without its shortcomings, including some of Castelletti’s own contributions alongside poems that merely rehash activist catchphrases without adding any depth. It seems to confuse repetition and line breaks with thoughtful analysis. Similarly, it isn’t always effective to print performance pieces as they may lack the vibrancy the reader brings on stage.
Yet, stumbling upon an excerpt from Frank O’Hara or Ocean Vuong makes any perceived flaws forgivable.
What’s remarkable about this compilation is the representation it provides, not being exclusively American-centric and recognizing poets from across the globe. In particular, the next generation of queer poets from Ireland – Micheál McCann, Rosamund Taylor, Eva Griffin and William Keohane – make their country proud. Despite its imperfections, which could be attributed as much to copyright and permissions issues as individual preference, the anthology stands as a valuable addition to any collection, offering both comfort and a chance to celebrate.
The wonder of poetry is further delved into in Ashley Hickson-Lovence’s verse novel Wild East (Penguin, £8.99). This is the poet and lecturer’s third book and the first aimed at teenagers. It’s always intriguing to perceive a writers’ perspective on a visit to a poet workshop, utilizing their own school experiences, and this book doesn’t disappoint. The line, “this nosy poet has been / spying my words over my shoulder” offers a certain relatability that is truly captivating.
The tale of 14-year-old Ronny, a newcomer unfamiliar with the world of literature, engaging with poetry as a means to express his emotions regarding injustice, identity, and the tragic demise of his close mate is a slow-burn in this book, which gracefully brings about a positive conclusion. For those seeking audaciously sarcastic remarks to accompany positivity, refer to Josh Silver’s Dead Happy (Rock the Boat, £8.99). The book continues on the path of Silver’s preceding near-dystopian narrative, Happy Head. Five seemingly faultless couples find themselves in a series of peculiar challenges on an isolated island, managed by a captivating duo prone to exaggerated lingo. The protagonist Seb carries an endearing combination of quick wit and vulnerability as he unravels a means of escape and the mysterious events surrounding his boyfriend – a redemption narrative culminating in his pretend girlfriend’s development proves rather enjoyable.
The central theme of unity and strength in two celebrated narratives emerging this month. Anna Zoe Quirke’s debut, Something to be Proud Of (Little Tiger, £8.99), features Imogen, a turbulent, left-wing, neurodivergent bisexual willing to try her hand at stand-up comedy. Her journey, from one Pride event to another, is filled with the stark realization of the world’s indifference towards individuals like herself, and her fierce response for an all-embracing Pride celebration embodying the entirety of queer identities. Despite some occasional clumsiness, the story exudes warmth.
Four Eids and a Funeral (Usborne, £8.99), a cooperative endeavour by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé and Adiba Jaigirdar, bestselling authors, utilises the blueprint of a romantic comedy to share a tale about the Muslim communities in New England. The narrative throws together Said and Tiwa, ex-best mates, who find themselves entrapped in a situation wherein mutual custody of a feline leads to their collaborative effort in rebuilding the local Islamic centre which was destroyed by fire.
The city’s mayor is resistant to the idea of restoring the area, holding the belief that existing communal areas should meet all public needs. Tiwa ruminates on the fact that opportunities for community gatherings such as breaking fast during Eid al-Fitr, as well as Arabic-language sessions, may have come to an end. She grapples with the complexity of her advocacy due to her not being universally identified as a Muslim by strangers. As Said put it, he was aware that had Tiwa’s family been Middle Eastern, South Asian, or belonged to any ethnic or racial group besides black, there would have been widespread praise for Tiwa’s efforts rather than his.
However, these issues do not pose a significant obstacle to the blossoming romance between two seemingly adversarial characters, which perfectly fits the genre. However, their initially distant relationship’s justification falls short. As much as it’s expected that they will become a couple, and we pull for it, it would be fantastic if a convincing explanation for their initial separation was given.
Like Quirke’s novel, this one also serves a commendable purpose by showing young people ways they can be a catalyst for positive changes in their localities.