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272 pages, Hardcover
First published April 7, 2015
On the days when the sky didn’t blanket everything in sight with a pall of snow, the wind came shrieking down from the hills to thud against the doors, to lament in his roof vents, to groan in the throat of his chimney.
Most were texting as they waited their turn, heads bent in the reverential silence of parishioners shuffling towards the communion rail.
I’ve always had the feeling that a short story is not simply a short novel. I have always felt that the short story shared more with poetry. I think you often hope that within a short story the puzzle with the narrative snaps into focus with the last paragraph. It should crystallize everything that has taken place in the story.
What he would like to do is hand the keys to the 1957 Chevy Bel Air to Brendan in the hope the boy would drive away as fast as he can. On nights when the hard little stars beat against the windshield like brilliant hail and the prairie wind moans its insinuations, he can imagine Brendan speeding down some road, the CD blaring the strange music that thumps night after night from his bedroom, the wind ruffling his blond hair, each mile bringing him closer to where he needs to be.
In his mind's eye, Randy Bright hungrily watches his son until a final twist in the highway pavement whips Brendan out of sight, the Chevy Bel Air carrying him on to a waiting refuge, safety, a haven of happiness. He knows it is not going to happen, but he wishes it would, wishes that Brendan could be as lucky as he has been. Thirty-five years of contentment is something, even if now the bill for it seems to have come due.