Here’s something you might not know: if a women is raped on a trible land, there is a good chance no one gets prosecuted. This is an injustice all women around the world have to endure.

The Round House shows this injustice through the eyes of thirdteen-year-old Joe Coutts, whose mother is attacked outside their North Dakota home. As the reader, we have the chance to look into Joe’s understanding of the world’s truths.

A mystery novel and a coming-of-age story. It is also an indictment of a legal system designed to fail Native Women.

Not a big fan of horror stories, too many people getting murdered in houses they should not have bought.

However, Jones’s writes a true story that we should consider. The monster is not the people, it is the metaphor. Four Niitsitapi men, haunted by something that happened ten years ago. Something they did, together, that they cannot undo. Something that is coming back for them, one by one.

The story is interested in the past, the monsters we have created and monsters we had to endure. Can you run from them?

A post-apocalyptic novel but the apocalypse happens off-screen. The power goes out, the internet dies, supplies stop coming… However, in a remote Anishinaabe community in the North, life goes on.

Rice is interested in what happens when the system fails. Not in a dramatic, zombies-in-the-street way, but in the quite way. the way people keep living because they have to. The way traditional knowledge becomes essential because the modern alternatives are gone.

A novel that won the Miles Franklin Award, the biggest Australia’s biggest literary prize.

Wright’s prose is expensive, lyrical, biblical. She draws on Waanyi oral traditions to tell the story of a fictional town on the Gulf of Carpentaria—a town torn between Indigenous residents, white miners, and the forces of nature. The narrative loops and spirals.Times moves differently. characters appear and disappear.

It is not an easy read, but once you find the rhythm, once you stop trying to force it into Western narrative structures, it opens up.

A young woman sees something from her window. An assault, maybe/ She is not sure, she calls the police.

Vermette structures the novel around shifting perspectives—family members, neighbors, police officers, survivor. everyone has a piece of the truth. No one has all of it. The “break” is a place, a space between houses in Winnipeg’s North End where things happen that no one wants to talk about.

This is a novel about intergenerational trauma and the ways violence echoes through families. It’s also about the ways Indigenous women hold each other up, hold each other together, hold on.

He is funny, but he is also angry. King’s anger comes wrapped in wit, which makes it easier to swallow and harder to dismiss.

This book is a history of the relationship between Indigenous peoples and settlers in North America. King covers treaties, legislation, pop culture, activism. He traces how policy and law and media have shaped Indigenous lives—and how Indigenous people have shaped themselves in response.

The tone is conversational. You can hear King’s voice on the page, the same voice you’d hear if you saw him speak at a festival or listened to his CBC lectures. It’s accessible without being simplistic, angry without being bitter.

Between 2000 and 2011, seven Indigenous high school students died in Thunder Bay, Ontario. They were all sent to the city for school because their home communities didn’t have high schools. They all ended up dead.

Talaga investigated. What she found was racism, neglect, and systemic failure. Police who didn’t investigate. Schools who didn’t care. A city that looked away.

This book is journalism, but it’s also grief. Talaga knew some of these kids’ families. She sat with them, listened to them, told their stories the way they deserved to be told.

Here’s the narrative you’ve probably heard: 1890, Wounded Knee, the last massacre. Indians defeated, culture destroyed, people vanished into history.

Treuer spends 500 pages proving that narrative wrong.

This is a history of Native America from 1890 to the present. It’s about adaptation and survival, about the ways Indigenous peoples refused to disappear. Treuer covers everything: law, art, politics, activism, sports, literature. He shows how Native communities have changed and grown and fought for their futures.

The book is dense but never dry. Treuer is a novelist as well as a historian, and it shows.

Yunkaporta is an academic who doesn’t write like one. This book is about Indigenous knowledge systems and what they can teach the world. It’s also about why the world probably won’t listen.

He uses “yarns” instead of chapters. He draws diagrams in the sand and photographs them. He argues that Western ways of thinking are destroying the planet and Indigenous ways might offer a way out—but only if we’re willing to do the work.

Diaz won the Pulitzer for this collection. She deserved it.

These poems are about love and desire and the body. They’re about the Colorado River and the desert and the Mojave language she’s working to revitalize. They’re about what it means to be Indigenous and queer in a country that wants you to disappear.

The language is urgent, physical, hungry. Diaz writes like she’s running out of time, like she’s trying to fit everything in before the world ends.

Harjo was the first Native American to serve as U.S. Poet Laureate. She held the position for three terms. Before that, she was already one of the most important poets in the country.

This collection returns to the land her ancestors were forced to leave during the Trail of Tears. She writes about what was lost and what survived, about grief and resilience, about the Muscogee people then and now.

The poems are accessible without being simple. They’re the work of someone who’s spent a lifetime learning her craft.

The title comes from a common belief: don’t whistle at night, or you’ll attract spirits. The stories in this collection explore what happens when you ignore that warning.

Dark fiction, horror, suspense. Indigenous writers doing what they’ve always done—using story to explore the things that scare us. The difference is, these stories are rooted in Indigenous traditions and fears. The monsters are different. The rules are different.