A novel by Andrew Holleran, an essay by Mary Grimm, and little stories by Sarah Priscus, Juan Ramirez, and Mikki Aronoff

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There was, however, one reason I'd stop at Orange Heights on my way home from Gainesville that had nothing to do with sex or loneliness, and that was to listen to the music on the public radio station broadcast from the university, because its signal extended only as far as 301. WUFT-FM, like many public radio stations, had played classical music until the mid-1980s, when it switched to all-talk, which upset so many listeners that the station created a separate frequency, a spin-off for people who could not bear the loss of Beethoven and Brahms. But the signal of this subsidiary station did not go nearly as far as the main frequency; in fact it stopped, more or less, at Orange Heights.
          There had always been something frustrating about WUFT-FM when the station played classical music—as if the selections were being chosen by music majors who refused to play masterpieces because they were too popular. When it became all-talk the station was tedious for other reasons. Its few local shows were dumped for syndicated programs that continued even after their moderators were no longer with us. Even after one of the hosts of Car Talk died, for example, they kept broadcasting reruns on weekends. 
—From The Kingdom of Sand, a novel by Andrew Holleran (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2022). This segment appears on page 8 of the hardcover. The Kingdom of Sand is generally plotless and seems more like a handful of related essays than a novel in any traditional sense. The nameless main character is a gay man who has moved to Florida to take care of his parents and who continues to live there, at least most of the time, long after their deaths. The longest section, "Hurricane Weather" (pp. 75-239), is about the narrator's relationship with his friend Earl during the last years of Earl's life. There is quite a bit of repetition, and the book is largely a thoughtful meditation on aging, death, and loneliness. There is a pervasive feeling of sadness and nostalgia. However, there are some beautiful turns of phrase here, and I found myself not wanting the book to end. 

The way I remember it, your dad was dying, not mine . . .
—From "Clutch," a piece of flash fiction by Mikki Aronoff, 100 Word Story. 

There is a letter slipped under the door. Final notice. I am summoned to appear nude in the streets for my designated torture and/or execution.
—From "Gone Fishing," a piece of flash fiction by Juan Ramirez, The Blood Pudding, Issue 14 (February 19, 2024). 

The kid next to me on the charter—bearded, but a baby—asks why I’m crying, and I lie and say my parents have died in an oil fire, a donut-frying accident, and he hands me a bottle of orange juice because he knows I’ll need my strength.
—From "Overnight," a piece of flash fiction by Sarah Priscus, The Blood Pudding, Issue 13 (November 27, 2023). 

I went swimming with my two daughters when they were both expecting babies. The three of us had gone away for the weekend, and were staying at a hotel in Port Clinton, Ohio, which was close to where we used to go on vacation when they were little. 
—From "Swimming with My Daughters," a personal essay by Mary Grimm, The New Yorker (May 11, 2024).