A woman arrives alone at a Best Western seeking respite from an emptiness that plagues her. She has fled to the California high desert to escape a cloud of sorrow—for both her father in the ICU and a husband whose illness is worsening. What the motel provides, however, is not peace but a path, thanks to a receptionist who recommends a nearby hike. Out on the sun-scorched trail, the woman encounters a towering cactus whose size and shape mean it should not exist in California. Yet the cactus is there, with a gash through its side that beckons like a familiar door. So she enters it. What awaits her inside this mystical succulent sets her on a journey at once desolate and rich, hilarious and poignant.

Once upon a time, in the middle of the forest, there was a lonely child with only his older sister for company. So his sister made him a playmate – Daye, a girl woven from carefully selected flowers and words. And finally, this boy, Rory, had a friend.Rory is finally, gloriously happy, until he learns that Daye is a seasonal creature. At the end of each season, she must be woven back together or fall gruesomely apart. And when, one autumn, his sister fails to return home from university in time, Rory has no choice but to watch his best friend slowly crumble, not knowing until the last second if she can still be pieced together again.Realizing he can no longer rely on his sister to keep Daye alive, Rory determines he must leave home to learn how to do it himself. And the more he learns the more he starts to Why can’t Daye survive more than one season? Can he do anything to break this cycle of bloom and decay? But as Rory grows older his thoughts turn darker too . . .While Rory sinks deeper into research and experiments, ensconced in libraries and hunched in university labs, Daye is left to wait for his return. Alone. Sometimes, the silence seems to seep all the way to her branch-bones. Sometimes, the company of birds is the only thing to remind her that she is still alive. And as Rory keeps pushing his experiments further and further, Daye starts to wonder – how far is too far?A feminist Frankenstein with flowers, Honeysuckle is a deliciously dark and twisted, horror-tinged fairytale with rot at its heart . . .

The ancient Greek word for tragedy (τραγωδία) is a compound of goat (τράγος) and song (ᾠδή). In Phoebe Giannisi's Goatsong, the seam that connects human and animal, myths and history, is the body. In Giannisi's language, life obeys myth. A man places a screaming cicada in his mouth, reminding us of a scene from Plato's Phaedrus, where Socrates claims cicadas to have been humans who became entranced by the invention of singing, and didn't stop to eat or drink. When the goddess Thetis dips her newborn son, Achilles, into the River Styx to protect all but his famous heel where her hand grips, we're told 'the place of the mother's grip / is the mark of death.' Adjacent to the mythical setting is the material, where the rumination of goats, their digestive cycle – chewing, swallowing, then recalling food back into the mouth to be reconsidered – begins after weaning, and is lain alongside how we 'from the moment of separation / from the mother / they ruminate.' In these lyric enactments, all is transformative and transformed; territories of land, the body and history are blurred, and nothing is still. From Homer to Donna Haraway, Derrida to state archives, klephtic ballads and rebetiko, to Parmenides and Giannisi's dog, Ivan, the many human and animal voices of Goatsong form an incantatory lyricism and layered engagement unique in literature.

A subversive literary horror novel that disrupts the tropes of women’s historical fiction with delusions, wild beasts, and the uncontainable power of female rage. The year is 1901, and Ada Byrd ― spinster, schoolmarm, amateur naturalist ― accepts a teaching post in isolated Lowry Bridge, grateful for the chance to re-establish herself where no one knows her secrets. She develops friendships with her neighbors, explores the woods with her students, and begins to see a future in this tiny farming community. Her past ― riddled with grief and shame ― has never seemed so far away. But then, Ada begins to witness strange and grisly a swarm of dying crickets, a self-mutilating rabbit, a malformed faun. She soon believes that something ancient and beastly ― which she calls the grey dog ― is behind these visceral offerings, which both beckon and repel her. As her confusion deepens, her grip on what is real, what is delusion, and what is traumatic memory begins to fail. Ada takes on the wildness of the woods, and begins to wonder which is more dangerous: the grey dog, or herself.

A heady, dark-hued Gothic gem of a debut in nineteenth-century Bulgaria, a self-proclaimed vampire slayer—actually, a traveling con artist—joins forces with a teenage girl to create a monster deadly enough to vanquish their own demons.  We make monsters in order to destroy them. For thousands of years, we’ve named witches and burned them, suspected demons and exorcised them. When crops die and children fall ill, who better to blame than a monster? In nineteenth-century Bulgaria, Yana rides from one desolate town to the next, staging grisly displays while the villagers animal corpses in the public square, eggs filled with blood in the chicken coop. She tells the stricken villagers stories of vampires that stalk the night. Then Yana eliminates the threat, and leaves seeds of hope in her wake. The village of Koprivici, however, is plagued by exceptional illness and misfortune, its children rarely surviving infancy. There, Yana meets a headstrong orphan who the villagers blame for their curse. As Anka approaches womanhood, the village Captain is grooming her for marriage against her will. Anka is powerless against him—that is, until Yana arrives. Together, the orphan and the vampire slayer hatch a to conjure a monster so vile, it might provide cover for Anka to escape. But their plan quickly takes on a horrifying life of its own... Inspired by Slavic folklore, She Made Herself a Monster concocts a clever mix of witchery, ghost stories, heresy, and deception to spin a feminist fable about agency and the power of collective action. It is a haunting and astoundingly cathartic tale of two women who will stop at nothing to take control of their fate. 

Author of sales sensation If We Were Villains returns with a story about a ragtag group of night shift workers who meet in the local cemetery to unearth the secrets lurking in an open grave. Every night, in the college’s ancient cemetery, five people cross paths as they work the late shift: a bartender, a rideshare driver, a hotel receptionist, the steward of the derelict church that looms over them, and the editor-in-chief of the college paper, always in search of a story. One dark October evening in the defunct churchyard, they find a hole that wasn’t there before. A fresh, open grave where no grave should be. But who dug it, and for whom? Before they go their separate ways, the gravedigger returns. As they trail him through the night, they realize he may be the key to a string of strange happenings around town that have made headlines for the last few weeks—and that they may be closer to the mystery than they thought. Atmospheric and eerie, with the ensemble cast her fans love and a delightfully familiar academic backdrop, Graveyard Shift is a modern Gothic tale in If We Were Villains author M. L. Rio’s inimitable style.