Review of The Divide: Stories by Evan Morgan Williams
Book release: February 17, 2026 from Cornerstone Press
Evan Morgan Williams’ latest book, The Divide (Cornerstone Press February 2026), is a collection of short fiction rooted in the Mountain West. The stories collected here center on characters who face divides not unlike a land punctuated by mountain ranges: couples quarrel over past lovers while facing present obstacles, sometimes to the detriment of their potential survival; men recall the ghosts of lovers of the past while the chasm between themselves and their current partners grows; a brother is reminded of his lost sister and all the girls who are not her. The mountainous, often frigid landscape plays a large role here, complicating events, providing opportunities for characters to prevail against natural odds, or serving as a reminder of the peril these characters face as they wrestle with specters of the past.
The collection is made up of sixteen short stories and the short serial “Buena Vista,” which is interspersed throughout the book. “Buena Vista” follows former lovers Sparrow and Sam, and Sam’s wife Jill, in their dalliance against the backdrop of the Front Range which creates another through-line to the narrative of the book, another perhaps doomed partnership. I looked forward, as I read, to discovering what would become of the characters in “Buena Vista” due to its dotting of the landscape of the book, its doling out in portions. It serves as a steady reminder that throughout this text, partners and acquaintances meet and pull away, come together then divide, almost like a dance.
Characters do dance in one of the first stories, “The Clear Blue Sky.” A couple dances on the patio of a restaurant in Jackson Hole near closing time while a college-aged girl waits to shut down, serving as a witness to their dance which is done in the cold. Several of the stories offer characters as witness to desire or need, or the unraveling of a relationship. The cold also plays a role here as they dance while debating the details of their past, specifically Paul’s dancing years prior with another woman, an old flame. But the cold: “The air was cold. The night was cold. It was all cold. They had forgotten the cold. They had forgotten hating this town, Jackson Hole, wearing their thin city clothes and being so cold” (18). Williams uses concise prose and repetition throughout the stories, and it’s effective, as the repetition did remind me that it was cold, and I could feel this cold as if I was there on the exposed patio.
“Down the Mountain” and “Anasazi” also note this cold as a feature of the story, especially the latter, in which a couple and their baby struggle to escape the exposure of a camping trip gone awry in the canyons near Durango. They seek refuge in a cabin known to the husband by his memory of visiting there as a younger man with a former lover–seeking out what he had once stumbled into before, so to speak. Williams shows careful command of language in these stories by giving the reader the lean particulars of the environment in which the characters flail—we learn it’s cold, it’s snowed, and they are in trouble—and this is what we need to spin out from that point. In “Snowy Day,” a woman who misses her husband watches two young sisters play outside her window in the snow. As she watches, she thinks it’s a “smothering snow,” and that “you could say anything in that snow, and no one would hear” (112). The snow in these stories muffles, silences, works as a dampening device. As I read, I recalled the first time as an adult that I felt a cold like this, having grown up in the Southwest instead of the Mountain West. It was on a balcony in Denver, and the cold caught me by surprise—it took my breath away. I can still conjure it now, and that’s the feeling that resurfaced as I read Williams’ stories.
“Soft and Warm Against Me” was originally published by Variant, and it too is set in this cold place, but here it’s contrasted with the warmth of the main character’s co-ed neighbors’ apartment. This story is a craft lesson in the subtle build of plot and character to reveal meaning. Matthew has lost a sister to violence which is hinted at in the beginning of the story, and the reader learns of his involvement with the young women, their warm apartment, the steaming pies they baked for the party which they eat directly from the pan, and it’s a swirl of heat against the cold of the environment outside their building, against cold reality. The reader can make the leap from lost sister to these stand-ins, these young women with their own stories of violence. Williams excels at peppering his stories with details, a sort of treasure hunt for the reader, or a map. “Don’t Tell Me About Bosnia” similarly contains details hinting at the whole: Mark and Melanie attend a party at the home of Melanie’s beautiful friend, Alina, and it’s all umber and copper and amber and honey wine, warmth and warm surfaces as their relationship comes up against insecurity. The reader can feel these stories.
Williams places his characters in environments disguised as warm, as home, as temporary hiding place, and asks the reader to see the contrast or likeness to the sometimes desolate or uninhabitable landscape of the snowy mountains or forgotten towns. Readers will relate to Williams’ characters and their discontent, their reaction to the discomfort of these situations. They will recognize the moment of disconnect between the couples or friends, and feel like they were there to witness weighty moments with these characters. That’s Williams’ power with language and characters, one felt in the body even as an observer.
