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). 

Stories by Bennett Sims, Jared Hanson, Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, and André Alexis, and a prose poem by Joni Wallace

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The client turned out to be an older man, a lawyer nearing retirement.
          I met him at his office downtown, where he gestured for me to sit across the desk from him, as though I were the client and his were the services we were there to discuss.
—From "The Postcard," a short story by Bennett Sims, Socrates on the Beach, Issue 7. It was included in his collection Other Minds and Other Stories (Two Dollar Radio, 2023). My other favorite from the collection was "Unknown," which originally appeared in The Kenyon Review. 

At the end of the summer of 1995, I had finished all my credits for high school and my father handed me twenty dollars. That's the last you're getting from me, he said. Either I had to enroll in the community college or start paying him rent. No, he said, let me rephrase that: you're going to pay me rent and I'll pay your tuition at the community college.
—From "My Life on the Streets," a short story by Jared Hanson, Bodega, Issue 134 (March 2024).

It's around six months or so after society has begun changing, mainly for the worse, when Lizzy and I decide to take that trip we've been talking about for so long, and which, only in hindsight, is probably our biggest mistake, i.e., not knowing what we're getting ourselves into.
—From American Estrangement, a short story collection by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh (W. W. Norton, 2021). This segment is from "Scenic Route." Please note: the sixth/next-to-last story in this collection, the one with the metaphor in the title, contains an uncomfortable subplot that may not be for everyone.

Math was tricky ground for him: it could be useful, but was often frivolous. He saw math as the thin edge of the entertainment wedge, as if, once you engaged with Fermat's Last Theorem, reality TV was not far behind. 
—From "Houyhnhnm," a short story by André Alexis, The New Yorker (June 20, 2022), pp. 52-58.

Starlings chitter up in dawn-light. Slip-of-a-dog, a languid coyote, steals between houses,
—From "Clockwork," a prose poem by Joni Wallace, Rhino (2024). 

A poem by George Oppen, a film written by Justine Triet and Arthur Harari, and short stories by Claire-Louise Bennett, Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, and Souvankham Thammavongsa

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We saw, our heads
Ringing under the stars we walked
To where it would have wet our feet
Had it been water
—From "The Forms of Love" by George Oppen, reprinted by The Academy of American Poets. This segment was highlighted on their social media on April 24, 2024, during National Poetry Month. "The Forms of Love" was included in New Collected Poems of George Oppen (New Directions Publishing, 2008).

At the bottom of the street was the common and that was one of the few places I could handle at certain times of the day. Wearing a long green velvet skirt that mingled with the gently surging grass, I'd walk slowly, sedately even, around the ponds, dispensing bread along the way so that the ducks would stay with me. I would have been ill at ease anywhere, I expect, but London has a way of embellishing a minor dread so that it takes on pathological and seductive proportions.
—From "Invisible Bird," a short story by Claire-Louise Bennett, The New Yorker (May 30, 2022), pp. 54-59.

Somebody said, of course money doesn't make you happy, but it's still better to cry in a car than in a subway.
—From Anatomy of a Fall (2023), a French film originally titled Anatomie d'une chute, which was directed by Justine Triet and written by Justine Triet and Arthur Harari. It stars Sandra Hüller, Swann Arlaud, and Milo Machado-Graner. It's a crime drama, split between English and French, and has won a slew of awards including an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.

"Just be careful," they told me, but they didn't offer any follow-up, and partly because I knew they were suggesting something that I didn't really want to hear, and because I knew this would be the best job I'd ever be able to find, I never asked them to elaborate. Before leaving, they'd say, "Don't stay too late."
—From "Nondisclosure Agreement," a short story by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, The New Yorker (May 9, 2022), pp. 62-68.

The evening I actually met Miss Emily's son, I was finishing up my shift when I saw him come in. He seemed real glamorous, and I hadn't seen someone like that before so close up, looking right back at me.
—From "Trash," a story by Souvankham Thammavongsa, The New Yorker (June 13, 2022), pp. 58-60.

The Spring 2024 issue of the Apple Valley Review

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The Spring 2024 issue of the Apple Valley Review features features flash fiction by Andrew Siegrist, K. A. Polzin, and Leo Vanderpot; short stories by Thomas Mixon, Roger Mensink, and Molly Lurie-Marino; poetry by J. R. Forman, Stan Sanvel Rubin, Jadranka Milenković (translated from the Serbian by Petar Penda), Brian Johnson, Sarvin Parviz, and Judith Harris; and a cover image by Colombian photographer Edgar Serrano.

The Apple Valley Review is a semiannual online literary journal. The current issue, previous issues, subscription information, and complete submission guidelines are available at www.applevalleyreview.com.

Short stories by Kevin Barry, poetry by Judith Harris, a novel by Colm Tóibín, and essays by David Sedaris

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Living alone in his dead uncle's cottage, and with the burden lately of wandering thoughts in the night, Seamus Ferris had fallen hard for a Polish girl who worked at a café down in Carrick.  He had himself almost convinced that the situation had the dimensions of a love affair, though in fact he'd exchanged no more than a few dozen words with her, whenever she named the price for his flat white and scone, and he shyly paid it, offering a line or two himself on the busyness of the town or the fineness of the weather.
—From "The Coast of Leitrim," the opening story of That Old Country Music, a collection of short stories by Kevin Barry (Doubleday, 2020). I first read this story in print in 2019, and I really liked it. Now, though, in 2024, I listened to it as part of the audiobook for That Old Country Music, and this added a whole different dimension. If you have the option, I highly recommend reading the text in addition to listening to it in an audio format read by the author. "The Coast of Leitrim" first appeared in print in The New Yorker (October 15, 2018), pp. 70-75, and is available online with the option to read and/or listen to the story. 

Then a flash of a cardinal
like a struck match, 
—From "Cardinal and Pine Through an Open Window," one of two poems by Judith Harris, Terrain.org (September 14, 2023).  

Eilis Lacey, sitting at the window of the upstairs living room in the house on Friary Street, noticed her sister walking briskly from work. She watched Rose crossing the street from sunlight into shade, carrying the new leather handbag that she had bought in Clerys in Dublin in the sale. 
—From Brooklyn, a novel by Colm Tóibín (Scribner, 2009). The sequel to this book, Long Island, is forthcoming from Scribner on May 7, 2024.   

Bonus books to read again: 

"Oh, for God's sake," my mother said, tossing her wooden spoon into a cauldron of chipped-beef gravy. "Leave that goddamned cat alone before I claw you myself. It's bad enough that you've got her tarted up like some two-dollar whore. Take that costume off her and turn her loose before she runs away just like the last one." 
—From Naked, a memoir/collection of essays by David Sedaris (Back Bay Books/Little, Brown and Company, 1997).

My performing career effectively ended the day my drug dealer moved to Georgia to enter a treatment center. Since the museum I'd done a piece at a gallery and had another scheduled for the state university. "How can you do this to me?" I asked her. "You can't move away, not now. Think of all the money I've spent on you. Don't I deserve more than a week's notice? And what do you need with a treatment center? People like you the way you are; what makes you think you need to change? Just cut back a little, and you'll be fine. Please, you can't do this to me. I have a piece to finish, goddamnit. I'm an artist and I need to know where my drugs are coming from."
          Nothing I said would change her mind.  
—From Me Talk Pretty One Day, a memoir/collection of essays by David Sedaris (Little, Brown and Company, 2000). This section is from "Twelve Moments in the Life of an Artist," Eleven, pp. 39-59 in the paperback. A version of this piece first appeared on This American Life (August 22, 1997) in an episode called "Blame It on Art."

Short stories by Cleo Qian, and novels by Alina Bronsky, Amy Tan, John Irving, and Anne Tyler

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Most evenings, I ordered fried chicken from the same student hot spot near campus and took the food back to my studio, where I streamed Korean TV dramas and celebrity interviews with my VPN or played Hakuoki: Demon of the Fleeting Blossom until two in the morning. These were things I had done as a high schooler, and I was filled with the sickening and yet satisfying feeling of regression into immaturity. 
—From Let's Go Let's Go Let's Go, a collection of short stories by Cleo Qian (Tin House, 2023). This particular segment is from "Zeros:Ones," which appears on pages 41-54 of the book and which was originally published, possibly in a slightly different form, in The Adroit Journal (Issue 45). This specific passage appeared on page 45 of the paperback. 

When Herr Schmidt woke up early Friday and didn't smell coffee, at first he thought Barbara might have died in her sleep. It was an absurd idea—Barbara was as healthy as a horse—though even more absurd was the possibility that she could have overslept. She never overslept. But when he turned over in bed and saw that the other half of the bed was empty, it seemed to him that the most likely explanation was that Barbara had keeled over dead on her way to the kitchen.
—From Barbara Isn't Dying, a novel by Alina Bronsky, translated from the German by Tim Mohr (Europa Editions, 2023). This book was originally published in German as Barbara stirbt nicht (Kiepenheuer & Witsch: Germany, 2021). 

My sister Kwan believes she has yin eyes. She sees those who have died and now dwell in the World of Yin, ghosts who leave the mists just to visit her kitchen on Balboa Street in San Francisco.
—From The Hundred Secret Senses, a novel by Amy Tan (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1995). One of my favorite sections of this book had to do with Kwan and the owl (the cat-eagle); it starts on page 191 of the Vintage trade paperback version that I have. 

One night he saw one of the mothers standing in the baby room. She did not appear to be looking for her baby in particular; she was just standing in her hospital gown in the middle of the baby room, her eyes closed, absorbing the smells and sounds of the baby room through her other senses. Homer was afraid the woman would wake up Nurse Angela, who was dozing on the duty bed; Nurse Angela would have been cross with her. Slowly, as Homer imagined you might assist a sleepwalker, he led the woman back to the mothers' room.  
—From The Cider House Rules, a novel by John Irving (William Morrow and Company, 1985). This passage appears on page 86 of the hardcover published in 1985.   

Bonus book to read again: 

At the puppet show, in a green and white tent lit by a chilly greenish glow, Cinderella wore a strapless evening gown that made her audience shiver. She was a glove puppet with a large, round head and braids of yellow yarn. At the moment she was dancing with the Prince, who had a Dutch Boy haircut. They held each other so fondly, it was hard to remember they were really just two hands clasping each other. "You have a beautiful palace," she told him. "The floors are like mirrors! I wonder who scrubs them."  
—From Morgan's Passing, a novel by Anne Tyler (Alfred A. Knopf, 1980). 

Poetry by Louise Glück, memoirs by Abigail Thomas and Busy Philipps, stories by Amparo Dávila, and a novel by Anne Tyler

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It's not easy to pluck individual poems from her books, since Glück was particularly adept at conceiving of book-length sequences—each of her collections is best encountered as a whole, like a Pink Floyd album that doesn't readily yield a hit single.
—From "Five Louise Glück Poems to Get You Started," an article by Gregory Cowles, The New York Times (October 13, 2023). Louise Glück died earlier in October at the age of eighty. My favorite of the poems Cowles singled out was "Matins," which begins with these lines: 

I see it is with you as with the birches:
I am not to speak to you
in the personal way. 

The full poem, "Matins" (meaning "Mornings" in French), is available online from the archive of the Los Angeles Times (September 20, 1992). It, along with others of the same title, is included in her collection The Wild Iris (Ecco, 1993). 

We met in 1979. I was thirty-seven; he was twenty-seven. I had been twice divorced and had four children, Chuck was happily married and had none. I was working at a publishing company as a slush reader, which meant I handled everything that came without an agent. He took over my job because I had been promoted to editorial assistant. . . . It was my job to train him, but all I wanted to do was make him laugh. He was good-looking and nervous, an interesting combination. 
—From What Comes Next and How to Like It, a memoir by Abigail Thomas (Scribner, 2015). This segment is from "When It Started" (pp. 6-7). There is also an excellent unabridged audiobook version, which is narrated by the author (Simon & Schuster Audio Editions, 2015). 

"Just as the police van pulls up we could see you coming around the corner in your diaper. And there was a woman on a bike behind you." 
—From This Will Only Hurt a Little, a memoir by Busy Philipps (hardcover, Touchstone, 2018; paperback, Gallery Books, 2019). Sometimes a good audiobook is a nice accompaniment to the print book, but in this case, if you have the option, just jump straight to the audiobook. It is narrated by Busy Philipps and is entertaining and sometimes poignant (Simon & Schuster Audio, 2018). My favorite story is in the chapter called "Your Ex Lover Is Dead - Stars." It would probably also be funny on the page, but her delivery is everything here. A sample of the audiobook is available on the website for Simon & Schuster.

He awoke in a hospital, in a small room where everything was white and spotlessly clean, among oxygen tanks and bags of intravenous fluid, unable to move or speak, no visitors allowed.
—From The Houseguest, a collection of ominous little stories by Amparo Dávila, translated from the Spanish by Audrey Harris and Matthew Gleeson (New Directions, 2018). This excerpt is from the final story of Dávila's collection, "The Funeral."  

Bonus book to read again: 

My brother Jeremy is a thirty-eight-year-old bachelor who never did leave home. Long ago we gave up expecting very much of him, but still he is the last man in our family and you would think that in time of tragedy he might pull himself together and take over a few of the responsibilities. Well, he didn't. 
—From Celestial Navigation, a novel by Anne Tyler (Alfred A. Knopf, 1974).