By Wendy Reed
On a wet Tuesday morning in 1996, Wendy Reed's motor vehicle hydroplaned, crossed an interstate median, and crashed into an oncoming motor vehicle, whose driving force was once killed. notwithstanding Reed and her son have been unhurt and Reed firstly defined herself as "fine," within the months that she will be engulfed in a hurricane of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring felony complaints over the twist of fate. In An unintentional Memoir, Reed, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, issues the lens at herself and explores that coincidence and a succession of non-public reviews via truth and fiction. advised from strange views and in hugely figurative language, the tales draw at the Southern Gothic culture of Flannery O'Connor and have darkish humor, fallacious humans, disastrous occasions, and moments of religious grace. Taken jointly, this choice of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales turn into a meditation on topics akin to paintings, relatives duties, loss of life, and elevating a...
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Extra resources for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
Harder to breathe than it was in the garage. Mind you, I’ve got nothing against breathing. I’m actually rather fond of it. It’s the fatigue I don’t like. And sheep are so cliché. I don’t want to go out counting clichés. I’m on 25-Mississippi when I remember that my daughter’s elementary school graduation is next week. She’s playing the piano as the accompanist when they march in and out. “But you don’t play piano,” I’d said when she came in from school and announced she was trying out for the honor.
My queen’s in danger but with that visual it’s hard to concentrate on protecting her. “I’ve seen it,” he says and shrugs. Turns out that Fon is more than a just a nickname. She is 25, an old Thai maid who wants a relationship with Danny. “Most women want the picket fence,” he says. ” I say. I move my king. ” I’m more than a dozen years older than Fon and want two things from Danny: help with my story and to drive his car, whatever the hell kind it is. When we talk on the phone the next night, he tells me about the notorious kick lines where women pop goldfish in and out of their vaginas as part of the routine.
His name is Joe and he lives in the Forest Park section of Birmingham. He agreed to take a look at the arm as a favor to me. Danny flies into Atlanta where he owns a house and cars. He calls me from the airport. ” I ask. He’s arrived in time to get a spot in I-85’s five o’clock traffic extravaganza. ” I ask. I could hear horns in the background and Enya wailing her ethereal song. “They won’t suspect a thing. It looks like shoes. I met a dealer who packed it in dirt inside a Birkenstock shoebox.