Short stories by Lily King, Akhil Sharma, and Kang Young-sook; a novel by Yun Ko-eun; and a poem by Cal O'Reilly

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Socially we balanced each other out. He was the guy who came into the room and everyone was relieved. I made people deeply uneasy, myself most of all. If we hadn't shared a room I would have been one of those guys on our hall that got a nod from him in the stairwell, maybe a bit of banter at the sink shaving, but no 2 a.m. arguments about transubstantiation or Bret Easton Ellis. 
—From Five Tuesdays in Winter, a collection of short stories by Lily King (Grove Press, 2021). This segment is from "Hotel Seattle" (pp. 150-168 in the hardcover). Lily King's story "When in the Dordogne" is one of my favorite stories that I've ever read in One Story. Based on that, I bought this collection when it was first released (back in 2021, apparently!) and it has been languishing in my TBR pile ever since. Recently, I read the book and listened to the audiobook, which has various narrators and is excellent (Blackstone Publishing). If you're looking for stories that could be described as quietly devastating, I'd recommend a few from the middle of the collection: "North Sea," "Hotel Seattle," and "Waiting for Charlie." 

Yona went down to Jinhae on Friday evening. Jungle—the travel company where she worked as a programming coordinator—didn't currently offer any travel packages to visit the post-tsunami rubble, but it would soon. 
—From The Disaster Tourist, a novel by Yun Ko-eun, translated from the Korean by Lizzie Buehler (Counterpoint, 2020). The English translation was first published in Great Britain by Serpent's Tail, an imprint of Profile Books Ltd. The book was first published in Korean by Minumsa (2013). I listened to the audiobook, which was narrated by Natalie Naudus (also Blackstone Publishing). Strangely, I felt like most of the marketing materials were describing a completely different book. To me, it was more about selfishness and greed (both corporate and personal) within the context of disaster tourism and, I guess, tourism more generally. 

Mrs. Graeber walked around the class checking on our progress. By this time, Ritu had pinned the organs to the wax of the workbench, and they looked the way they appeared in the drawings: the heart, the kidneys, the stomach. Mrs. Graeber asked Ritu who had done what. Ritu and I were both standing. I said that I had done the measurements. Ritu looked down and didn't speak.
—From "Ritu," a piece of flash fiction by Akhil Sharma, The New Yorker (online August 28, 2025). 

Right then two children sprung out from the east entrance of the apartment. Both were wearing long padded jackets and masks decorated with animal faces. Holding hands, they walked across the field and stepped onto the sidewalk. They glanced at us as they walked past. . . . I raised my hand in an awkward wave. Ignoring me, they quickly walked along the narrow road, still holding hands. Each time a truck hurtled past them, I couldn't help holding my breath. 
—From At Night He Lifts Weights, a collection of short stories by Kang Young-sook, translated from the Korean by Janet Hong (Transit Books, 2023). Originally published in Korea by Changbi Publishers, Inc. (2011). This segment is from "From Mullae," the first story in the collection. 

I didn't think about the texture of your hair 
or your stubble on my cheek
—From "I went to the library and I didn't think about" by Cal O'Reilly, from Beginnings Over and Over: Four New Poets from Ireland, selected by Leeanne Quinn (Dedalus Press, 2025).

Fiction by Graham Greene, Miriam Cohen, T. Coraghessan Boyle, and Jonas Eika, and a collection of cityscapes by Paul Madonna

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Scobie took a Mende grammar from the bookcase: it was tucked away in the bottom shelf where its old untidy cover was least conspicuous. In the upper shelves were the flimsy rows of Louise's authors—not-quite-so-young modern poets and the novels of Virginia Woolf. He couldn't concentrate: it was too hot and his wife's absence was like a garrulous companion in the room reminding him of his responsibility. A fork fell on the floor and he watched Ali surreptitiously wipe it on his sleeve, watched him with affection: they had been together fifteen years—a year longer than his marriage—a long time to keep a servant. He had been "small boy" first, then assistant steward in the days when one kept four servants, now he was plain steward. After each leave Ali would be on the landing-stage waiting to organize his luggage with three or four ragged carriers. In the intervals of leave many people tried to steal Ali's services, but he had never yet failed to be waiting—except once when he had been in prison. There was no disgrace about prison; it was an obstacle that no one could avoid for ever.
—From The Heart of the Matter, a novel by Graham Greene (William Heinemann in London/The Viking Press in the United States, 1948). I was listening to an unabridged audiobook version narrated by Joseph Porter (Blackstone Publishing, 2011). Please note: this book contains some racist language that will be considered offensive now. The Heart of the Matter is set in Sierra Leone during World War II and was first published in 1948. 

Yael's parents ask if she has any questions, and she does, but she suspects they aren't the right ones. She wants to know if she will have two toothbrushes now, or if she will bring the same one back and forth, its bristles wrapped in shredding tissue to keep from getting germy. Also, she is curious about when a divorce starts: if it happens all at once, or in stages, the way people are engaged for a while before they are married. She wants to ask if later on that night they will have dinner together, or if the divorce has made that, today, impossible.
—From "Bad Words," a short story by Miriam Cohen, from her collection Adults and Other Children (Ig Publishing, 2020). This story appears on pages 31-45.  

Clover was back in the room, the baby flung over one shoulder. She was wearing an old Cramps T-shirt she liked to sleep in and nothing else. I might have found this sexy to one degree or another but for the fact that I wasn't at my best in the morning and I'd seen her naked save for one rock-and-roll memento T-shirt for something like a thousand consecutive mornings now. "It's six-fifteen," she said. I said nothing. My eyes eased shut. I heard her at the closet, and in the dream that crashed down on me in that instant she metamorphosed from a rippling human female with a baby slung over her shoulder to a great shining bird springing from the brink of a precipice and sailing on great shining wings into the void. I woke to the baby. On the bed. Beside me. "You change her," my wife said. "You feed her. I'm late as it is."
—From "The Lie," a short story by T. Coraghessan Boyle, The New Yorker (April 14, 2008). Stephen Colbert read this story for Selected Shorts, and it is included in Selected Shorts: Even More Laughs. The compilation, which is available in various locations such as Audible and OverDrive, also includes "The Spray" by Jonathan Lethem, "The Swim Team" by Miranda July, and other stories.

I arrived in Copenhagen sweaty and halfway out of myself after an extremely fictional flight. Frankly, I would use that word for any air travel, but on this trip I had, shortly after takeoff, fallen into a light feverish daze in which I relived a series of flights I had taken earlier in my life.
—From "Alvin," a short story by Jonas Eika, translated from the Danish by Sherilyn Nicolette Hellberg, The New Yorker (April 19, 2021), pp. 52-59. 

"This new guy I'm dating is driving me crazy. His reply to everything is, 'Oh, yeah, I'm famous for that.'"
          "Uh. I know what you mean. I dated a guy who did the same thing. And it would always be to the most ridiculous stuff, like, you'd say, 'I hate when people leave the cap off the toothpaste.' And he'd say, 'Oh, yeah, I'm famous for that.'"
          "Ha! That's Jeffrey to a T! As if anyone could be famous for something so stupid. I mean, who's he famous to anyway?"
          "Wait a minute—Jeffrey? He wouldn't happen to work at a trattoria on Stockton Street?"
          "Yeah, how did you—"
          "Wow."
          "No kidding. I guess he is famous for something."
—From Everything Is Its Own Reward: An All Over Coffee Collection, a large collection of meticulous pen and ink cityscapes and thoughts from the weekly San Francisco Chronicle series "All Over Coffee" by Paul Madonna (City Lights Books, 2011). This is his second collection of work from the newspaper. My favorite panels from this book were on pages 75, 82, 103, and 207. The excerpt quoted here is from page 75.