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. 

Fiction by Alina Bronsky, Jean Thompson, and Ann Patchett, and two poems about fire

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I'm awoken in the night again by Marja's rooster, Konstantin.  He's like an ersatz husband for Marja.  She raised him, and she pampered and spoiled him even as a chick; now he's full-grown and good for nothing.  Struts around the yard imperiously and leers at me.  His internal clock is messed up, always has been, though I don't think it has anything to do with the radiation.  You can't blame the radiation for every stupid thing in the world.  
--From Baba Dunja's Last Love, a novel by Alina Bronsky, translated from the German by Tim Mohr (Europa Editions, 2016).  Originally published as Baba Dunjas letzte Liebe (Kiepenheuer & Witsch: Köln, Germany, 2015).

My father came home from the war to a household of girls and women.  There was me, my mother, and my sister Carol, born while he was away.  This was 1967, which was early to be coming back from Vietnam.  More people were going there than returning, as is the case in any war.  And the great acceleration, the downhill plunge, was just beginning.  You have to remember none of us knew how anything would turn out.  
--From Who Do You Love, a collection of short stories by Jean Thompson (Harcourt Brace & Company, 1999).  It was published in paperback in 2000 by Simon & Schuster.  This excerpt is from "The Amish," a short story which was first published in American Short Fiction.

I was looking at a poster for Midnight Alarm when the first
        minivan blew up.  Ten minutes after the second explosion
        we heard the sirens, and I knew they didn't sound
the same as in the Garden in 1950, alerting firefighters
        laid out on cots as if asleep to rise and dowse a scaffolding 
        structure painted like a tenement or brownstone.
--From "Fire in the Streets," a poem by Gavin Adair, Mid-American Review, Volume 27, Number 1 (Fall 2006), p. 125.

. . .  Love's insects land on your arm 
& draw a little blood.  Instinctively, you squash them with your palm.
Amazing the seasonal shifts we permit ourselves: It seemed lucky 
when our apartment burned.  My father circumvented the superintendent 
& illegally installed a new invention: the air conditioner, overloading vintage wiring.

Next scene: a thousand people in exile, clutching (what would be the one
possession you'd snatch in a panic?), & we all watched, hypnotized by flames, 
like a scene from a '50s Godzilla movie, the lives of families transformed by my father's
desire for a comfortable summer. . . . 
--From "Unitarian Birds," a poem by Bruce Cohen, Mid-American Review, Volume 28 (Fall 2007), pp. 60-61.

The first time our father brought Andrea to the Dutch House, Sandy, our housekeeper, came to my sister's room and told us to come downstairs.  "Your father has a friend he wants you to meet," she said.
--From The Dutch House, a novel by Ann Patchett (HarperCollins, 2019). 

Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules

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Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules, a collection of stories edited and introduced by David Sedaris (Simon & Schuster, 2005).

I read this as slowly as I possibly could, hoping that he'd have a new collection of essays out by the time I finished, but no dice.

Some of the stories that really stuck out to me were ones I'd already read (e.g., "Interpreter of Maladies" by Jhumpa Lahiri; "People Like That Are the Only People Here" by Lorrie Moore--who every once in a while has a wonderful, perfect sentence; and "Cosmopolitan" by Akhil Sharma) but this was an interesting collection.

Among others, Sedaris also included "Oh, Joseph, I'm So Tired" by Richard Yates, "Gryphon" by Charles Baxter, "The Garden Party" by Katherine Mansfield, "Half a Grapefruit" by Alice Munro, "Applause, Applause" by Jean Thompson, "Where the Door Is Always Open and the Welcome Mat Is Out" by Patricia Highsmith, "Song of the Shirt, 1941" by Dorothy Parker, "The Girl with the Blackened Eye" by Joyce Carol Oates, "Revelation" by Flannery O'Connor, "In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried" by Amy Hempel, "Irish Girl" by Tim Johnston, and "Bullet in the Brain" by Tobias Wolff.

Side note: Purchase of this book helps support 826NYC, a nonprofit tutoring center in Brooklyn, New York.