Oxford Review of Books

by Ella Sperling Alice Hattrick is a London-based writer and lecturer at the University of the Arts, London. In 2016, they were shortlisted for the Fitzcarraldo Essay Prize.

by Victoria Spires Wheat Now all the golds, parsed through the slow syntax of summer heat are leached of their old meaning and I am tongue-tied— The train, a trance state, running through me What have you done with the things I knew of myself? These tides of evenings.

Beginning with a line by Diane Seuss. By Zoe Dorado Freedom, which is a word that tastes strange, like a green plum. It was August. At the gas station, there were no tampons. But they sold off-brand Doritos and daily prayer books marketed to men. Dave Branon told me to Be Grateful, so I was. James Banks told me to Stand Strong, so I did, reciting his mantras all the way to the bathroom stall: Oh, Lord, Oh, Father, please let me not offend anybody.

Interview by Olivia Katrandjian Set in 1938 Vienna, Alice Jolly’s The Matchbox Girl (Bloomsbury 2025) tells the story of Adelheid Brunner, a girl who does not speak, but dreams of collecting a thousand matchboxes. She is sent to Dr Asperger’s clinic, where he studies 'autistic psychopathy.' But Adelheid is the real observer, watching the complicity and courage of those around her as Nazism spreads and Germany annexes Austria.

By D.P. Strickland Winner of the ORB's HT26 Short Fiction Prize, judged by Kate Greathead. Today, Kalima tells me about a cyclone which formed in Paris in 1896, resulting in the deaths of five people. Gusts of two hundred miles per hour (category EF2 on the Fujita scale) uprooted trees and lifted horses from the ground. Books flew around the Place Saint-Sulpice, rising in higher and broader circles until they reached the clouds. I ask what the Fujita scale is, and Kalima taps her head.

By Eleanor Davies Land is a story that resists beginnings and endings in any conventional sense. Rather, it unfolds. It is like it has always been there, waiting for someone’s skilful pen to pull its pieces together. Maggie O’Farrell does just that. Indeed, I found myself unsure even where to begin when writing about this novel. In retrospect, my hesitation feels almost entirely appropriate.

By Lydia Tadross-Marks Her breath is heavy, heavy heavy, and when she bends over to pick the okra she can hear it loud. It is so hot, even in September, and the okra pricks her fingers, but she won’t wear gloves, won’t do it, no. She reaches the edge of her row in the field. It is her row after all, she always picks this row. By the end of the row her body tingles, allergic to the prickly skin of the plant. Okra is related to hibiscus, her boss tells her, and cotton.

By Ben Harding Foxes In the lukewarm streetlight, foxes— one then two, now four, eight eyes like the Dipper stare a soul into my side. Ask for change I do not carry, and nose the plastic —rinsed for reuse—that spills out from blue bins. Ribs flex under spoilt hides as they slink, a limp for one, dog-eared ear another. Those lights tilt, snuff, I hear a punctured liner rustle. It was too heavy a charge, anyhow. Pale Ails Amidst the pale ale drinkers.

By Amelia Thornton Runner up of the ORB's HT26 Spring Short Fiction Prize, judged by Kate Greathead. Lunch’s apples spend most of their lives hidden away in my cabinet. Just like me, in my windowless living room, on my windowless couch, they must have lots of time to think. Think about the tree they grew on and how far they fell from it. Think about making the big move to New York City and starting their job at the supermarket.

By Dyala Janselme In the run up to the 2024 General Election, I found myself sharing pints with Reform members. Having emailed the head of my local branch with a feigned interest in joining the party, I was warmly invited to attend their local pub meetings. Sauntering in with a secretly-recording phone in my pocket, I saw myself as an intrepid investigator going undercover.