There is no snow. The streets are dusty, dirt encrusted. The sky is that kind of heavy grey which is only fit for a Cormac McCarthy picnic. All the garbage so nicely illuminated. Everyone keeps talking about how warm it is but the wind is grim and insistent and the effect is like standing directly beneath a gigantic bridge. On the radio they talked to a Canadian parachutist who crash landed somewhere in the States; his hospital bill is enormous and he has no insurance. It's just one of those things, he said. I never thought it would happen to me. The forecast calls first for snow and then deep cold coming in.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
The title of this post implied a much juicier confession.
ReplyDeleteI never thought it would happen to him either...?!
ReplyDeleteChilly
ReplyDeleteHahhahaha! Yes, it does seem like the title some juicy pulp fiction. Glad you got a reprieve from the snow. I love your ink drawing of your coat.
ReplyDeleteI can't imagine Cormac McCarthy at a picnic.
ReplyDelete