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).