The characters that populate Patrick Strickland's debut short story collection, A History of Heartache (Melville House; 272 pages), don't have much going for them. A number of adjectives come to mind—dickheads, winos, and meth monsters are just a few of the many used by the characters themselves—that generally describe them as down-on-their-luck types who live on the fringes, perched on barstools in run-down dives, and holed up in houses with eviction notices nailed to the door. Set mostly in North Texas, the collection drops us into the lives of eclectic misfits who search for, but rarely find, a way out.

The collection's fourteen stories are united by loss, regret, and, true to its title, heartache—though not exactly in a classically romantic sense. Characters grapple with the subtle ways grief changes them, trying to move past traumatic events and often failing. Many teeter on the brink of failure, while others seem already gone. Nobody's sure of their future; nobody's sure they even have one.

Phil drifts through several other stories as a supporting presence, and many of the collection's characters share similar traits. These characters are compelling not just for who they are, but for the faint possibility of who they might become, even if they’d never admit it. They are not saints—far from it—but they also don't pretend to be something they're not. There aren't inflated egos or people acting like they're better than those around them. In "Screaming East on I-10," a Texas transplant shares a cramped apartment with meth heads in California, mourning his brother and contemplating a return home, yet he withholds stern judgment of the derelicts around him. In "Dead Cats," a ninth grader watches the football team’s star spiral downward and tries, in vain, to win his father’s approval. Even after the star is kicked off the team for a crime the narrator was complicit in, there’s no scorn or disapproval. "The Han Gil Hotel" follows a down-and-out narrator back to his hometown, where an old friend leads him through the sites of their peers’ overdoses and deaths, a twisted tour meant as punishment for leaving. Despite the pain, the narrator embodies a thread that runs through the collection: acceptance of his place among these people, and not treating them differently or looking at them with contempt.

There isn't room for much mystery within that acceptance, though "The Dump" stands out as a departure. It weaves ambiguity into the bleakness and gives the best example of Strickland's ability to string the reader along, offering only morsels of information piece by piece. Maggie cares for her husband James, a former con man now suffering from Lewy body, a type of dementia. Or maybe not. Maggie isn't sure if he's faking the disease because he finally conned the wrong people and much of their possessions were repo'd. Mostly, she suspects it's just another con: "Maggie thinks of how James carries himself now, the uneasy gait, the careful steps, and it surprises her how much research he's done to play the part right." The story’s pleasure lies in trying to solve the mystery alongside Maggie and forming our own opinions about whether James is faking. Nothing is straightforward, and the payoff is bigger because of it.

Many of the collection's narrators are young men more focused on surviving life than on catching feelings for the opposite sex. While there's romance and love in the backstory of "Mockingbirds" and a few other places, there isn't much in the way of well-adjusted memories of young love or overt attempts at finding companionship. That changes in "General Holy War," one of the collection’s standouts. Here, a pre-teen boy, bullied by older kids wielding super soakers in his trailer park, yearns for connection after witnessing the string of toxic relationships that define his mother’s life and his own sense of worth. He sums up the latest man living on his couch: "My old man's gone, and ever since he got gone, Ma brings home guys you couldn't pay me enough dollars to like, guys like Marlboro Reds." Isolated, living in squalor, and sick of his mother's temporary boyfriends, the narrator’s budding affection for his neighbor Susanne becomes a rare, hopeful thread. He makes a real effort to reach out and impress her, offering a refreshing break from the toxic relationships that permeate the rest of the stories. A little moment of hope, even if it doesn't last.      

There's certainly a push-and-pull to the tight cohesion of the collection. All fourteen stories share similar themes, settings, and life situations: Parents are all drunk or missing. The teenagers smoke. People are defined by their nicknames and often try to come up with new ways of swearing. The A/C never seems to work, and the trucks won't start. Basically, there are no easy wins for anyone. The tight cohesion risks monotony for readers seeking more variety, particularly when the lack of variety doesn't include much optimism. But variation is a double-edged sword, posing an inherent risk of disrupting cohesion and flow. Consider Denis Johnson's masterpiece Jesus' Son (a clear influence on Strickland). If Johnson had included a story set among socialites on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, such a significant departure could have ruined the collection. Strickland chooses to stay close to his characters’ world, but with situations as depressing as these, the collection risks dragging down the reader's spirits, much like the characters' own. Still, these stories are not entirely without moments of hope or levity. Amid the hardship, Strickland occasionally allows a glimmer of warmth or connection to come through, whether in lasting friendships, a brief romantic spark, or small acts of kindness. These moments add emotional depth and reinforce the collection’s focus on what endures in bleak lives.

Strickland has published three nonfiction books and works as a journalist, and those credentials show in the prose. His sentences are direct and to the point. He employs humor to bring levity to terrible situations. Many stories are written from a first-person point of view, and he moves characters from one situation to another with an economy of words. There's quite a bit of slang throughout the pages, including several characters who create and shout new combinations of curse words, while a handful of characters are referred to only by their nicknames. The prose style fits the themes and atmosphere needed to keep the collection's voice grounded and reinforce the bleak world the stories present. While some slang can be off-putting, it's exactly the language we'd expect if we were living in one of these trailer parks.

The run-down houses and decrepit neighborhoods of North Texas offer little hope. While some stories directly reference the 2008 financial crisis, the shadow of economic despair stretches across every page. A History of Heartache is not interested in comfort; it drags readers into darkness alongside its characters. Gritty, raw realism is part of the current zeitgeist. When we feel beaten down by elites immune from scrutiny, there's an appetite to sink into the stories of the marginalized who appear more battered and bruised than us. These characters don't have many redemptive qualities, and optimism is relatively scarce, but those drawn to such relentlessly realistic stories will find this book a worthy adventure. Those who would rather read "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" instead of a story about a paranoid meth head named Ice Man should pass. Ultimately, the book features memorable characters who are trying to break free from a cycle of endless hardship, and others who are content to sit back and continue to endure the pain. Regardless of their decisions, they often find themselves in situations that resemble slow-motion car crashes. The question is, how many of us will slow down and gawk as we pass by?