Does 'The Long Way To A Small Angry Planet' Have A Sequel?

The ending of 'The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet' wraps up the journey of the Wayfarer crew in a bittersweet but satisfying way. After all the chaos and emotional rollercoasters, they finally complete their mission to tunnel a stable wormhole to the hostile Toremi planet. The climax hits when Rosemary reveals her true identity to the crew, and instead of rejection, she gets acceptance—something she’s yearned for all her life. The crew’s bond deepens, especially after the loss of one of their own, which adds a layer of melancholy. The book closes with them moving forward, not as coworkers but as family, ready for their next adventure. It’s a quiet, hopeful ending that emphasizes found family over grand battles or flashy resolutions. If you love character-driven sci-fi, this finale nails it. For similar vibes, check out 'A Closed and Common Orbit,' also by Becky Chambers.

The species in 'The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet' are a wild mix of interstellar diversity. Humans are just one small part of this universe. You've got the Aandrisks, reptilian humanoids with vibrant feathers and a culture built around physical contact and communal living. Then there are the Sianats, small rodent-like beings who share a hive mind when paired with their symbiotic tech. The Grum are massive, furry engineers with a knack for solving impossible problems. My personal favorites are the Aeluons, blue-skinned aliens who communicate through color shifts on their cheeks. And let's not forget the Toremi, the most mysterious of all—a species so alien their motives are hard to parse. The book makes each species feel unique, not just in appearance but in how they think and interact.

I just finished 'The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet' and the death that hit me hardest was Sissix’s partner, Ohan. Their death wasn’t some flashy space battle moment—it was quiet, tragic, and deeply personal. Ohan chose to let their symbiotic virus die, essentially sacrificing their enhanced abilities and lifespan to save others. The way Becky Chambers wrote it made me ache; Ohan’s final moments with Sissix were raw and real, showing how love persists even in loss. The book doesn’t do shock-value deaths—it makes you feel the weight of each character’s choices. If you want more emotional sci-fi, try 'The Galaxy, and the Ground Within' next—it’s got the same heart.

As someone who devours sci-fi like candy, 'The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet' grabs you with its heart more than its tech. The charm lies in its crew—each character feels like family by chapter two. You’ve got a lizard pilot with dad energy, a grumpy AI who secretly loves poetry, and a human clerk who learns that ‘home’ isn’t a place but the people who’ve got your back. The book ditches galactic wars for something rarer: quiet moments fixing engines or sharing meals between jumps. It’s like if 'Firefly' and a therapy session had a baby, wrapped in cozy blankets of interspecies bonding. The Wayfarer’s mundane jobs—tunneling wormholes, dealing with bureaucrats—become extraordinary because of how deeply you care about who’s doing them. That’s why it’s stuck around: it makes the vast universe feel small enough to hug.

I've read 'The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet' multiple times, and it's one of the most inclusive books out there. The crew of the Wayfarer is wonderfully diverse, with several LGBTQ+ characters represented naturally and without tokenism. Rosemary, the human clerk, is bisexual, and her relationships are handled with depth and respect. The alien species in the book also have fluid gender identities and relationships that defy human norms, which adds layers to the story. Chambers doesn't make a big deal out of it—it's just part of the universe. If you're looking for sci-fi where queer characters exist without their sexuality being the plot, this is it. The way love and identity are explored feels organic, not forced. I'd recommend this to anyone who wants to see representation done right in space opera.

I recently finished reading 'A Life on Our Planet' and was struck by how concise yet impactful it is. The book runs about 240 pages, but David Attenborough packs so much into that space. It's not just a memoir of his incredible career, but a urgent call to action about the state of our environment. The length feels perfect - long enough to cover his personal experiences from decades of nature documentaries while also diving deep into the ecological crises we face. What's impressive is how he balances personal anecdotes with hard scientific data. The book moves quickly between his first-hand accounts of disappearing wildlife to sobering statistics about biodiversity loss. Despite being relatively short compared to some environmental books, it leaves a lasting impression because every page serves a purpose. Attenborough's writing is so engaging that you can easily finish it in a couple sittings, but you'll find yourself thinking about it for weeks afterward. The physical edition I have is a standard hardcover size, making it comfortable to hold during longer reading sessions. The pacing is excellent too - it never feels rushed or dragged out. The first part covers his life story efficiently, the middle sections lay out the environmental challenges with startling clarity, and the final chapters offer practical solutions that leave you feeling hopeful. For anyone interested in nature documentaries or environmental issues, this is one of those books where the length works in its favor - substantial enough to be meaningful, but accessible enough that it won't intimidate casual readers.

I remember reading 'Long Way Down' by Jason Reynolds and being completely absorbed by its raw, emotional depth. Frick is one of those characters who sticks with you long after you’ve turned the last page. He’s part of Will’s tight-knit group of friends, and his name alone carries a lot of weight in the story. Frick isn’t just a side character; he represents the cycle of violence and loyalty that threads through the entire novel. His presence is a reminder of the unspoken rules of the streets—rules that dictate how Will and his friends navigate their world. Frick’s fate is tied to the larger themes of revenge and grief, and his absence looms large over Will’s journey down the elevator. What makes Frick so compelling is how Reynolds uses him to explore the cost of vengeance. Frick’s death is the catalyst for Will’s descent into the elevator, where he’s forced to confront the consequences of his choices. The way Reynolds writes Frick makes him feel real—like someone you might’ve known or heard about. His name is shorthand for a life cut short, a story unfinished. The novel doesn’t dwell on Frick’s backstory in detail, but that’s the point. His character serves as a mirror for Will’s own struggles, forcing him to question whether the path he’s on will lead to anything but more pain. Frick isn’t just a name in the story; he’s a ghost, a warning, and a reflection of the world Reynolds is critiquing. Another layer to Frick’s character is how he embodies the idea of legacy. In neighborhoods like Will’s, names carry histories, and Frick’s name is no different. It’s a name that’s whispered in hallways and alleys, a name that’s tied to memories of laughter and violence. Reynolds doesn’t romanticize Frick’s life or death; instead, he uses him to show how easily young lives are swallowed by the same cycles they’re trying to escape. Frick’s presence in the elevator—even in memory—forces Will to reckon with the weight of his choices. It’s a powerful narrative device, and it’s part of what makes 'Long Way Down' such a gripping read. Frick might not be the main character, but his influence is everywhere in the story, a constant reminder of what’s at stake.

Buck in 'Long Way Down' is like that character who stomps into the story with all the weight of a ghost and the swagger of a legend. He’s Will’s older brother figure, the one who’s already gone down the path Will’s staring at—the cycle of violence, revenge, and street rules. Buck’s not just a name; he’s a warning. His death kicks off the whole elevator journey, haunting Will like a reflection of what he could become. The crazy part? Buck’s not even alive for most of the book, but his presence is everywhere. His voice, his stories, the way he taught Will the 'rules'—it’s all suffocating. You can tell Jason Reynolds wrote him to be this shadow you can’t shake, the kind that makes you question every choice. What hits hardest is how Buck embodies the tragedy of the cycle. He’s charismatic, the guy everyone looked up to, but also trapped by the same rules he passed down. His death isn’t just a plot point; it’s the reason Will’s holding that gun. The elevator stops force Will to confront Buck’s legacy—whether to follow his footsteps or break free. It’s brutal storytelling, the way Buck’s absence screams louder than any monologue. The book doesn’t need flashbacks to show how much he mattered. His influence is in the cracks of Will’s anger, the way his hands shake, the way the gun feels too familiar.