Fiction by Paul La Farge, Jean Thompson, and Diane Cook; a poem by Jin Cordaro; and the new book by Allie Brosh

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She also has an extensive library of self-help books, which implies that, for all her intelligence and self-possession, Dara may have some problems.  She is for sure a recovering alcoholic; one of the first things she told April P was that she doesn't allow drinking or drugs in her house.  Also, and she did not warn April P about this, Dara is a toucher.  She keeps finding reasons to squeeze April P's arm, pat her hand, give her a mini shoulder rub.  

--From "Rosendale," a short story by Paul La Farge, The New Yorker (September 29, 2014), pp. 72-77. 

He came back.  I saw him

in the grass, the white of him

glowing in the floodlight, . . .

--From "After We Buried the Dog in the Dark," a poem by Jin Cordaro, The Sun (December 2020).

My grandma usually supervised me while my parents were at work.  She'd drink screwdrivers and do the crossword, I'd run around the house and do whatever.  If she hadn't seen me in a while, she'd check to make sure I still had all my fingers, but escaping wasn't a big concern.  The doors were locked.  Just in case, there were jingle bells on the handles.

        The dog door was the single weak point in the fortress.  

--From Solutions and Other Problems by Allie Brosh (Gallery Books, 2020).  It's essentially a sequel to her earlier book, Hyperbole and a Half.  (I referred to that one as a "tragicomic illustrated memoir," which seems about right for this one as well.)  The section above is from page 20 of the hardcover.

The bride and groom had two wedding receptions: the first was in the basement of the Lutheran church right after the ceremony, with punch and cake and coffee and pastel mints.  This was for those of the bride's relatives who were stern about alcohol.  The basement was low-ceilinged and smelled of metallic furnace heat.  Old ladies wearing corsages sat on folding chairs, while other guests stood and managed their cake plates and plastic forks as best they could.  The pastor smiled with professional benevolence.  The bride and groom posed for pictures, buoyed by adrenaline and relief.  There had been so much promised and prepared, and now everything had finally come to pass.    

--From The Year We Left Home, a novel by Jean Thompson (Simon & Schuster, 2011). 

They let me tend to my husband's burial and settle his affairs, which means that for a few days I get to stay in my house, pretend he is away on business while I stand in the closet and smell his clothes.  I cook dinners for two and throw the rest away, or overeat, depending on my mood.  I make a time capsule of pictures I won't be allowed to keep.  I bury it in the yard for a new family to discover.

        But once that work is done, the Placement Team orders me to pack two bags of essentials, good for any climate.  They take the keys to our house, our car.  A crew will come in, price it all, and a sale will be advertised; all the neighbors will come.  I won't be here for any of this, but I've seen it happen to others.  The money will go into my dowry, and then someday, hopefully, another man will marry me.

--From Man V. Nature, a short story collection by Diane Cook (HarperCollins, 2014).  This section is from the first story, "Moving On," which was originally published in Tin House. 

Books of short stories by Roberto Bolaño and Dan Chaon, and a tragicomic illustrated memoir by Allie Brosh

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B is in love with X.  Unhappily, of course.  There was a time in his life when B would have done anything for X, as people generally say and think when they are in love.  X breaks up with him.  She breaks up with him over the phone.  
--From "Phone Calls," one of a series of connected stories by Roberto Bolaño, from his short story collection Last Evenings on Earth, translated from the Spanish by Chris Andrews (New Directions, 2006).  "Phone Calls" first appeared in Grand Street. 

O'Sullivan and his older brother, Smokey, have been driving in silence for a long while when the deer steps out of the darkness and into the middle of the road.
     For a second, it seems as if the world is paralyzed.  They can see the deer with its hoof lifted, taking a delicate step into their path, dreamy as a sleepwalker.  They can see the enormous skeletal bouquet of antlers as it turns to face them.  
--From "Slowly We Open Our Eyes," a short story by Dan Chaon, from his story collection Stay Awake (Ballantine/Random House, 2012), pp. 172-187.

This girl I've been seeing falls out of a tree one June evening.  She's . . . a little drunk and a little belligerent. . . . and we've been arguing obliquely all evening.
     For example, I just found out that she has an ex-husband who lives in Japan, who technically isn't an ex-husband since they haven't officially divorced.
     For example, I didn't know that she thought I was a bad kisser: "Your kisses are unpleasantly moist," she says.  "Has anyone ever told you that?"
     "Actually, no," I say.  "I've always gotten compliments on my kisses." 
     "Well," she says.  "Women very rarely tell the truth." 
     I smile at her.  "You're lying," I say . . .   
--From "Shepherdess," a short story by Dan Chaon, first published in Virginia Quarterly Review (Fall 2006) and reprinted in his story collection Stay Awake (Ballantine/Random House, 2012), pp. 188-209.

When I was ten years old, I wrote a letter to my future self and buried it in the backyard.  Seventeen years later, I remembered that I was supposed to remember to dig it up two years earlier.  
. . .  The letter begins thusly: 

        Dear 25 year old . . .
        Do you still like dogs?  What is your favorite dog?  Do you have
        a job tranning dogs?  Is Murphy still alive?  What is youre favorite
        food??  Are mom and dad still alive?

. . .  Below [a crayon drawing of] German shepherds, I wrote the three most disturbing words in the entire letter--three words that revealed more about my tenuous grasp on reality than anything else I have uncovered about my childhood.  There, at the bottom of the letter, I had taken my crayon stub and used it to craft the following sentence: 

                                      Please write back.

--From Hyperbole and a Half, written and illustrated by Allie Brosh (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster, 2013).