The book’s grief is tactile. Jessa’s hands are always working, skinning, stuffing—busyness as a shield. Her father’s suicide isn’t a plot point; it’s the air she breathes. Arnett’s prose is visceral, blending decay and desire. Even the sex scenes feel like grief, messy and desperate. It’s not about 'moving on' but learning to carve a life around the hole left behind. Unflinchingly queer, unflinchingly human.
Grief in 'Mostly Dead Things' is a paradox: both frozen and festering. Jessa preserves creatures, but her emotions rot unchecked. The novel contrasts her meticulous taxidermy with her chaotic family—each member grieving differently. Her mother’s erotic animal sculptures scream rebellion against death; her brother’s absence is a hollow protest. Arnett doesn’t offer catharsis, just the sticky truth that grief outlasts closure. It’s a book about learning to live with ghosts, not exorcising them.
Arnett’s novel treats grief as a silent, stubborn roommate. Jessa’s dad is gone, but his presence lingers in every dusty corner of the shop, in the way she skins animals just like he taught her. The book’s brilliance lies in its mundanity—grief isn’t dramatic soliloquies but half-empty coffee cups and the quiet rage of a daughter left behind.
The humor is dark, dripping with irony, like a taxidermied raccoon holding a beer. It’s grief that laughs so it doesn’t scream, love that festers into something jagged. The setting—Florida’s sweaty, neon gloom—mirrors the sticky, suffocating weight of loss.
'mostly dead things' dives into grief like a knife through wet paper—sharp, messy, and impossible to ignore. The protagonist, Jessa-Lynn, inherits her father's taxidermy shop after his suicide, and the novel stitches her mourning into every grotesque, preserved animal. Grief here isn’t just tears; it’s the smell of formaldehyde, the weight of unsaid words, and the eerie comfort of manipulating dead things into something lifelike.
Kristin Arnett’s writing lingers on the physicality of loss—how Jessa’s hands keep busy while her heart decays. The family’s dysfunction amplifies it: a mother who copes through obscene art, a brother who vanishes into denial, and a queer love story tangled with regret. It’s raw, Southern Gothic grief—unpretty, unapologetic, and unforgettable.
Mia D’Lorne thought heartbreak would kill her but getting hit by a car did the job faster.
One second she’s running from the sound of her boyfriend and sister fornicating, the next she’s standing in front of an abandoned bus station in what looks like purgatory. The bus that picks her up looks like a prop in a horror movie and she’s introduced to the world of the Soul Recycle Program.
To exist, she has to compete in a twisted afterlife show where the dead fight their way through nightmare worlds for the amusement of unknown and unseen spectators. The rules are simple. Survive or disappear for good.
Mia is joined by two strangers who are just as broken as she is. Axel Rivers, who has been dead for almost a century, and Bree DeBois, a control freak paramedic with more guilt than she can carry. Together they try to survive the challenges of the game.
As the trio do their best to keep from being erased, they begin to realize the Game is more personal than they imagined.
My dad died in a car crash.
On the seventh day after his death, I hear him whisper in my ear, "Amara, save your brother. There are cracks in the old stone bridge at the village entrance... It will collapse... He will die."
I immediately call my brother, Asher Langford, and he takes a different route out of the village.
But that afternoon, the police report that a murder took place on that road. The victim is Asher.
My sister-in-law, Delia Winslow, and I bury him in tears.
On the seventh day after my brother's death, I hear my dad's voice again. "Amara, keep an eye on Jasper. Don't go to the back of the hill. The dead trees there attract lightning... There will be a thunderstorm in three days."
That night, Delia locks my nephew, Jasper Langford, inside the house. But three days later, Jasper falls from a window on the 12th floor.
Delia goes insane after losing her husband and son consecutively in such a short time.
Holding back my grief, I leave my own son, Billy Calloway, with my husband, Felix Calloway, and help Delia lay Jasper to rest.
On the seventh day after Jasper's death, I see my dad holding Billy's hand and looking back at me with a sorrowful expression.
He says, "Amara... There are spirits looking for substitutes in the reed marsh in the village. Take care of Billy. Don't go..."
"Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can come together."
Myles is jolly, friendly and kind as everyone describe, everyone is her
friends, expect for one guy that didn't know she existed, Harry.
Harry is everyone's crush, he has this charisma that even Myles was captivated.
Myles love him and idolize him so much that she was blinded by it. She met Asher while idolizing Harry, but she only sees him as a friend opposite of Asher’s feelings for her. Harry is her first love but does she really love him as she think or she's just stuck to the ideal image of him?
First love dies is a story about first love and how we wish for the ideal and are blinded with it.
This book is for the people who feel as if they are alone. This book isn’t just about a love story but also about trauma that comes with wanting to be loved. I don’t condone anything that this book is about. This is awareness. Somewhere in this world this happening to so many people. This is for them. For them to know you aren’t alone, you are heard, and it is NOT your fault. These topics need to be talked about. You will fall into their lives, feel connected to at least one of these characters. And some you will despise. You will see everyone’s point of view and what they think. Giving you breaks from certain characters. I hope you love and see the potential within this novel. And if you have triggers, please don’t read. This book is filled with triggers to help people see that they are heard! To spread awareness! With much love- Marie Dallas ❤️
Reading 'Grief Is the Thing with Feathers' felt like stepping into a surreal dream where grief isn't just an emotion—it's a living, breathing entity. The Crow, this wild, chaotic presence, becomes a metaphor for the way loss invades your life, refusing to be tidy or predictable. I loved how Max Porter doesn't try to sanitize the messiness of mourning. Instead, he leans into the absurdity, the anger, the moments of dark humor that flicker like candlelight in a storm. The fragmented style mirrors how memory works after a loss—jagged, nonlinear, with certain moments blazing brighter than others.
The book’s power lies in its refusal to offer easy answers. The father’s academic detachment contrasts with his raw, private despair, while the boys’ childish innocence sharpens the pain of their mother’s absence. It’s not about 'getting over' grief but learning to let it perch on your shoulder, cawing its truths until you’re ready to listen. Porter’s Crow isn’t a villain or savior—just a witness, forcing the characters (and readers) to confront how love and loss are tangled together like roots.
The trauma in 'Every Dead Thing' isn't just backstory—it's visceral, shaping every decision the protagonist makes. Bird's family massacre haunts him like a physical wound; you see it in how he flinches at laughter that sounds like his daughter's, how he obsessively cleans his guns to avoid remembering their bloodied bodies. The author doesn't waste words on flashbacks—instead, trauma leaks into present actions. When Bird tortures informants, it's not just for information but because pain feels familiar, almost comforting. His alcoholism isn't a coping mechanism but a failed attempt to drown memories that float back up like corpses. What chills me is how his trauma makes him both a better hunter (he spots patterns in carnage others miss) and worse human (he pushes away anyone who gets close, convinced they'll die too). The book's genius lies in showing how trauma isn't something you overcome—it's something that rewires you permanently.
'Mostly Dead Things' is a dark comedy because it juxtaposes the absurdity of grief with the bizarre world of taxidermy. The protagonist’s family is a mess—her father’s suicide, her mother’s descent into erotic art using his preserved animals, and her own crumbling marriage. The humor comes from the sheer audacity of their coping mechanisms. The mom stuffing squirrels into provocative poses? Hilariously tragic. The way the family communicates through dead things instead of words? It’s so wrong it’s funny.
The book doesn’t shy away from the raw pain of loss, but it wraps it in layers of irony and surrealism. The protagonist’s deadpan narration makes even the darkest moments feel like a morbid sitcom. It’s not just about laughing at tragedy; it’s about finding the absurdity in how we try to survive it. The taxidermy shop becomes a metaphor for preservation—of animals, memories, and dysfunctional family bonds.