The best literary fiction books from Next Chapter [March 2023]
Literary fiction is a genre of fiction that focuses on the artistry of language, the depth of character development, and the exploration of complex themes and ideas. It is characterized by its emphasis on writing style and technique, as well as its ability to challenge readers intellectually and emotionally. Literary fiction often deals with more serious and thought-provoking subject matter than popular or genre fiction, such as the human condition, morality, and social issues.
One of the hallmarks of literary fiction is its emphasis on character development. Rather than relying on action or plot, literary fiction often delves deeply into the inner lives of its characters, exploring their motivations, desires, and struggles. This allows readers to develop a more intimate understanding of the characters and their experiences, making the stories more meaningful and resonant.
Another defining characteristic of literary fiction is its use of language. Literary writers often experiment with structure, syntax, and vocabulary to create a unique and compelling voice. This attention to language allows literary fiction to evoke a wide range of emotions and ideas, and can make for a truly immersive reading experience. Overall, literary fiction is a rich and rewarding genre that can challenge readers to think deeply and empathize with complex characters and situations.
Below, you’ll find six works of literary fiction from Next Chapter authors, as of March 2023. We hope you enjoy the stories on this page - and if you do, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know your favorite :)
Books featured on this page
Islands Of Fire (The Sicily Chronicles Book 1) by Dick Rosano
Alejandro’s Lie by Bob Van Laerhoven
Book excerpt
That evening, Beatriz Candalti went to sleep around eight o'clock. Her father was like a dose of benzodiazepine, sucking away all her strength.
Two and a half hours later, she woke up covered in sweat, struggling in the sheets. Her nightmare disappeared, but the sadness of it remained. It was a depressing feeling, the realization of the uselessness of her life.
Just before her teenage years, her friend Pietro – she called him her boyfriend - had asked her in the summer house if she would ever want to marry him.
“Yes,” she had answered enthusiastically. “And then you have to make a lot of money, and I have to make a lot of children.”
She hadn't ‘made’ children, and that had been Manuel's first disappointment. It had been for her too. The tight feeling in her uterus that haunted her after learning she was infertile had long since faded. After all, it was a blessing to not have children in this desolate country.
She got out of bed and walked under the spell of her memory to the bathroom. Even then—so young still—she was under the influence of her parents' standards, which meant breeding many children for a rich husband.
She found herself fretting over her past self a lot recently: the Beatriz of ten years ago in no way resembled the Beatriz of today.
How was it possible she remembered nothing of the last year of the Gobierno Popular government, except her resentment that the economic downturn made the latest Paris fashion unavailable?
For herself, for her rights, she rebelled against her family. Still, she had almost imperceptibly adopted the world view of her social class.
She never really noticed the solidarity of the People's Government, the local initiatives, the citizens' committees. She missed all that, living squeezed into her straitjacket of 'appropriate' friends. Why hadn't she realized that even they tried to streamline her for the ideal husband?
In the shower, she let hot water flow over her body and cried, hunched over. Manuel had always urged her to walk upright: otherwise, her breasts would droop. Well, they were drooping now, and she couldn't care less. She felt ugly in the mirror, the reflection of powerless resentment.
She separated her anger from sorrow and stood straight. Men had dominated her all her life. Getting rid of Manuel and tricking her father for money was no longer sufficient as revenge.
She thought about the cargo that, as soon as Cristóbal Vial got the all-clear, she would pick up with the Cessna in the desert of the north where the Andes train crossed the Cordillera. She was afraid of this mission even though she had volunteered when Cristóbal had told her what goal the resistance was after.
She acted out of pride because she had an airplane at her disposal and out of shame of her origins. Since joining Cristóbal's circles, she read very different literature: the lifestory of Marianela Garcia Villas, for example—the lawyer for tortured and missing political prisoners in El Salvador until she found herself kidnapped, stripped naked, and tortured by soldiers.
Beatriz read about the brave mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina, demanding to know what had happened to their missing children.
About Maria Lionza, who stood up, for free and for nothing, for the poor in Venezuela.
Reading about these heroines led her to conclude that she no longer wanted to be mediocre. She was going to do something about that now. By her mission, soon.
But also by finally dominating a man.
Beatriz knew who she could succeed with in doing that, even before the curfew call at midnight emptied the streets.
Islands Of Fire (The Sicily Chronicles Book 1) by Dick Rosano
Book excerpt
“The sticks can be wet, then bent, and held in place like this,” he said, twisting one branch and tying its ends together to hold the bent shape. “After it dries, it stays,” he added, picking up a curved branch that had been molded in this way. He held the bow-shaped branch, and showed duplicates of it arranged in a row, using his hands to show one after the other, demonstrating for Anutu how a long shell could be made of these bent sticks.
Lotya then picked up a fragment of the leather mat at his side. He wrapped it around the bow, showing how a surface could cover the series of bent branches, again in an open-topped bucket shape. Anutu nodded his head but looked worried.
“How can it stay out of water?”
Lotya was ready for the question. He twisted around, looking for something. When he spotted the leather bucket that Nanda used to carry water from the stream, he directed Anutu’s attention to it.
“Bucket keeps water in,” he said, and Anutu agreed.
“Bucket can keep water out, too.” At that he rose quickly and waved for Anutu to follow him. He picked up Nanda’s bucket and the two men went down to the stream. Standing on the rocky platform that Tano had used to cast his net, Lotya took hold of the braided rope that was tied to the bucket and lowered it into the stream. Instead of plunging it in to gather water, he lowered the bucket slowly so that it bobbed on the surface.
A grin spread across Lotya’s face, but Anutu wasn’t convinced. He picked up a rock, held it in front of Lotya and said, “People,” and dropped the rock into the bucket. Both the rock and bucket sank into the sandy bottom of the stream.
* * * * *
Later that day, as the people gathered around the fire to eat the evening meal, Anutu and Lotya once again sat on the fringes. This time it was Anutu who had prepared something. He took some branches that had been soaked in the stream, just as Lotya had soaked his to build a floating bucket, but Anutu wove them into a flat, square shape, many sticks going one way and many going the other way, looping them over and under each other and then pulling the arrangement into a tight, flat bundle.
“This way,” he said confidently, “like twigs and sticks floating down the stream. But this will float toward Ganta.”
Lotya stood and hooked his hand toward Anutu, directing both men to return to the stream. Anutu knew what his friend intended, and he wondered too whether his idea would work.
At the water’s edge, Anutu tied a short length of braided rope onto his woven platform of branches and lowered it into the water. Altogether, the raft was no more than the length of an arm on each side, certainly too small for a man to stand on, but Lotya couldn’t resist taunting his friend. With a leg stretched out in the direction of the water, he acted as though he was going to step onto the raft, and Anutu howled.
His Father's Son by Tony Black
Book excerpt
Now that was something, thought Joey Driscol. Sure it wasn’t every day you saw three pelicans flying in a row. But there it was, three of the big white fellas up in the sky with their saggy jowls flapping as loudly as their wings against the bright blue sky. It was a grand sight to see, so it was, but sometimes the melancholy Celt came out in Joey and he wondered did he really deserve to be in this place. In Ireland they would have said it meant something. Three of anything in a row would have brought bad news, like a black hat on a bed or an umbrella up indoors. He knew his own mother would have been splashing the holy water around, lighting candles in church and praying to her patron saint at such a sight as three pelicans flying in a row. But there were no pelicans back in Kilmora, and weren’t blue skies there only half as rare?
Joey walked into the house and called out, “Marti, are ye home, son?” There was no answer. “Marti, Shauna, are yees home?”
The place was deadly quiet, he thought. He looked in the kitchen and he looked in the living room but there was no soul to be seen. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and breathed out slowly. Wasn’t it the queerest thing? Shauna had hardly raised herself for days and here she was now, up and out. She’d have to be dressed and made up to face the world. Perhaps their little talk had worked. Was she finally shaking off the Black Dog? Joey smiled to himself and put his cigarette back in his mouth.
Jaysus, this could be just grand, he thought, Shauna making the effort now. And mustn’t she have young Marti with her, that was grand too – didn’t the boy need the attention of his mother. A father could only do so much, what with the working and earning their keep. No, a mother was definitely needed to raise the child properly.
Joey bolted back to the kitchen. He scanned the fridge door for a note from Shauna, but there was none. Maybe that would be asking too much of her. She was only after getting over the Black Dog, wouldn’t notes and the like come with time. He was happy to think of Shauna, fully recovered and off treating Marti to some manner of visit or other. He imagined them together, laughing and smiling, Marti pointing at all the new toys in the shops and Shauna saying, “Maybe for Christmas if you’re a good boy, son.”
Things could be just grand now, he thought, just like they were before it started to go wrong. Hadn’t Shauna been a rare one, back in their day. She wasn’t like the rest of the Kilmora culchies. There was a wildness in her. All night she stayed out, dancing and drinking and enjoying herself and didn’t she care less who knew it. Joey’s own mother had said she was a wild one.
“Wouldn’t she stick her tongue out at the cross and mind not who saw her.”
Joey heard his mother’s words and then there were more of her words came back to him, and he remembered why he didn’t like to think about the past in Ireland with Shauna. If there was one thing he was sure of it was that the past must stay where it was. That was just Shauna’s trouble, didn’t she need to lock it all away.
Joey looked out the window into the yard and saw Marti’s friend Jono sitting on the back step with his fists dug into his cheeks. The boy looked sad, he thought, upset even. He waved at him. Jono looked up, gave no sign he had recognised Joey, and then he ran out the yard at full pelt.
A Single Breath by Amanda Apthorpe
Book excerpt
Athens’s toxic pall had been cleared by a persistent wind from the Aegean Sea. From the plane the city spread broadly to the sea and to the mountains behind. Like most tourists, we wanted to see the Acropolis and Parthenon, and at different times, we each thought we had seen it first. There was no mistaking the real thing when it came into view. It seemed that everything modern beneath could never equal it.
We were stiff from the flight and flustered from being constantly jostled as we waited for our luggage. Finally, we boarded a crowded bus for the port of Piraeus. On the wharves, assaulted by the blast of ships’ whistles and the constant smell of diesel, we bought our tickets to Kos at a derelict box where an elderly man in a once-white singlet sat slumped on a stool. As he spoke, I was fixated on the stains beneath his armpits. The ship would be leaving in 10 minutes, we were told in awkward English, a fact that Madeleine noted as a sign that this journey was “meant to be”.
We eyed the docked ferries with approval – Minoan, Blue Star. They were big, modern and looked sleek and beautiful in the sun and I felt satisfied that we had elected to take a ferry rather than a connecting flight. This was my concession to a new way of life, to being more spontaneous and savouring the moment. Everything seemed to be falling into place.
Our ferry was the furthest away. When we got closer, we stopped and gripped each other’s elbows. A small gasp escaped Madeleine’s lips. The ferry was small, old and ugly and my mind spun at the thought that we were to spend 12 hours on it. Madeleine became subdued. Her adventurous nature did not include sinking into the sea in a rusty boat.
“It might be better aboard,” I said, as much to boost my own morale as hers. It wasn’t.
“But I’m sure the crew will be friendly,” I added, as we walked up the gangplank.
They weren’t.
On board, we ate a hasty meal of limp salad and sour feta cheese as soon as the kitchen opened and then slunk down to our cabin in the hope of oblivious sleep. The Aegean Sea in late April was wild and, I discovered, on the top bunk, with the ceiling edging ever closer to my nose, that it was not just claustrophobia I was suffering from, but a literal sinking feeling that we were headed into danger.
Father Figure by James J. Cudney
Book excerpt
As much as Amalia tried to ignore the early morning conversation with Bryan, it was futile to fight nervous anticipation throughout the day. She incorrectly counted change for Mabel Newton, an old spinster who chastised her inability to pay proper attention to customers. When blood seeped through the small cracks in Amalia's skin from the counter's splintered edges, Amalia's father had to tell her three times to stop rapping her knuckles before she listened.
After a customer paid for his cans of wood stain and sealant, Amalia noticed it was time for the picnic. “Is it okay to leave for the lake now, Daddy?” She squeezed his hand before stepping away to find her belongings. “I locked the till in the safe and prepared the new one for Monday morning. I cleaned the coffee pot and updated the ledger with today's sales.” Amalia knew her father wouldn't force her to stay but assuring him that helping run the store was equally as important needed to be conveyed. “Thank you so much for letting me go to the—”
As Amalia leaned in to kiss her father's cheek, the bell on the front door clanged. Its harsh smack against the swollen jamb interrupted her words. “Just where did your father let you go, child?”
Amalia smelled the Vicks VapoRub lathered on her mother's skin every morning to breathe more easily. The stench lingered in each corner and lurked in every crevice of their home. Janet's throat glistened like an old wet rag, drawing unnecessary attention to folds of skin wrinkled all around her neck.
“Nowhere special, Momma. I went to the store to get our lunch.” Desperate fear prevented Amalia from focusing on her father's reaction. She understood it wasn't right to lie but also knew if her mother caught wind of the trip to Lake Newton, meeting Bryan that afternoon would never happen. “What brings you to the store?”
Peter shuffled toward Janet and leaned in to kiss her hello. She waved her hand to stop his approach. “This store belongs to me, Amalia. I don't need your permission. You hear that, Peter? Your daughter thinks I ought to have a reason to show up, as if this is your special little place together. What nonsense!” Janet hobbled toward the desk chair, clutching her handbag tightly against her chest. “Get me something to drink, Peter.”
“Amalia didn't imply you shouldn't show up here, dear. She meant no harm in asking what made you stop by.” His voice had little confidence, but he attempted to keep basic control of the conversation. He grabbed a can of soda from the refrigerator and poured some in a Styrofoam cup. “She's been an immense help today.”
“I see where she gets it from, Peter. That child needs to learn how to listen whenever I speak. No matter, she will one day soon. Get your things, Amalia. We're going home.” The authority in Janet's tone stole any remaining oxygen in the room. She slowly sipped from the cup and crumpled it on the counter once finished with its contents.
Amalia stared at her father, pleading for his help, uncertain what to say.
Peter glanced toward Janet but at once darted away not daring to look his wife in the eyes. “I still need her help for a little longer. We planned to be home for dinner by—”
“I didn't ask you about dinner. I said I needed Amalia to come with me. She's got work to do before her brother gets home.” Janet searched her purse for a piece of candy and pulled out an old butterscotch covered in lint. She removed the plastic wrapper and popped the candy in her mouth. The butterscotch banged against her rotting teeth swishing back and forth in a puddle of saliva.
Amalia grew hopeful that her mother had been confused by the dates. “Momma, Greg's not coming home until next week. I can fix up his room tomorrow.” Her cheeks flushed.
God Might Forgive Gershwin Burr by Brian Prousky
Book excerpt
Swift and Son, Professional Locksmiths on Simcoe Street in Oshawa was a little, square shop wedged crookedly between two much bigger shops, causing its sign and storefront to bend outward as if they were in a vice.
In his search for a locksmith, he’d gone as far west as Windsor and now he was heading east, prepared to go as far as Montreal if he had to. He was looking for someone old and alone, a sole proprietor without employees and without too many customers (he didn’t want a job as a cashier or a stockboy), someone biding time, preferably someone trying to earn enough money to quit or retire. It was a tall order. He’d visited twenty-three locksmiths who came close to meeting his criteria, two in Oakville, three in Hamilton, two in St. Catharines, one in Kitchener, one in Waterloo, two in Brantford, one in Woodstock, one in Chatham, one in Grimsby, five in London, three in Windsor, each with at least one flaw that disqualified them, sons or daughters who were learning the business, a general disinterest in taking on an apprentice, family members who were police officers, hands that shook, poor hearing, poor English, and in one case a locksmith who fell asleep while Gershwin was talking to him, and in another a disturbing backroom with a bare mattress and blood stains on the floor.
There you go: six literary fiction books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the novels above - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!
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