Archive for favorites

Take, Eat by Lee Martin

Posted in favorites with tags , , , , , , on March 21, 2010 by Holly Huckeba

I really liked Lee Martin’s story about food and family. Food allergy is a useful analogy for the effects of addiction: Even when it poisons our body, we crave that to which we are addicted. It is not uncommon to feel love, yearning and loss–sometimes decades later–for things we lose to sobriety. Family as well as food. 

I pulled the car into a parking spot in front of Hovey’s. “We’re just killing time, right?” I said to Deb, and she agreed to go inside.

That wasn’t the whole truth, that part about killing time. I wasn’t aware of it then, but I am now. Somewhere inside me that evening was the ridiculous belief that I could walk into Hovey’s, order anything I wanted from the menu and make myself at home, order a Big Murt and fries and a chocolate shake, and shoot the breeze with the waitress about the holiday basketball tournament at the high school, the Christmas lights at the park, the dark days of winter we’d face together, by golly, in this small, wink-you’ll-miss-it town.

Read the whole story at Sweet

Aftermath by Elane Johnson

Posted in favorites with tags , , , on March 17, 2010 by Editors

Elane Johnson weaves a tight narrative about a horrific accident, but it is her skillful use of a lowly preposition—the word “after”—that powers the story arc and illuminates the story’s unexpected central crisis.

After the skies broke open with a stunning crack about two o’clock in the morning, brilliant flashes of blue flooding the Winnebago like strobe lights; after the rain cut rivulets through the sand, long scratches of some malevolent creature obviously displeased with the earth…

Read more at Brevity.

Swerve by Brenda Miller

Posted in favorites with tags , , , , on March 14, 2010 by Editors

Not every addiction involves chemicals. In “Swerve,” Brenda Miller offers a lovely example of a relationship that’s not quite right in tight, tense, beautiful prose.

A  pound of marijuana in the trunk and a faulty brake light—any minute the cops might have pulled us over, so you were edgy already, and then I ran over that piece of stray lumber without even slowing down. Thunk, thunk, and then the wood spun behind us on the road. Your dark face dimmed even darker, and you didn’t yell at first, only turned to look out the window, and I made the second mistake: What’s wrong?

Read more at Brevity.

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