Those of you who are reading here now, but not reading Alistair MacLeod’s short stories, will probably only be interested in the first couple of paragraphs after this introduction. Feel free to skip past the section that I've titled The Underneath, written with those who know the story-or other
Naomi warned me this weekend: I knew immediately which one it was, the one with the dog’s body, broken and dragging itself home after it’s been shot. Since then, I’ve been thinking about how to write about this story without reading it again. And, so, I have started with
Stories like Alistair MacLeod’s are often described as timeless, but many of them, like “Second Spring”, feel time-full. Immediately, MacLeod situates readers in time: “It was the summer after the seventh grade that saw me truly smitten with the calf club wish.” Then, he invites readers to fall into
Boyles, Chen, Clerson, Eunyoung, Li, Ruffin, and So Short Stories in July, August, and September Whether in a dedicated collection or an anthology, these stories capture a variety of reading moods. This quarter, I returned to a favourite writer and also explored seven new-to-me story writers.
“It is August now, towards the end, and the weather can no longer be trusted.” The gentle rhythm in MacLeod’s sentence is responsible for its being a favourite of mine. Such an ordinary opening to such a startlingly subversive –and topical—story. With the findings of the IPCC report and
