The Forester’s Daughter
When he is getting into his car, a stranger who holds his cards close to his chest approaches.
‘I understand you have a dog you’d sell.’
‘A dog?’ says Deegan.
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘a gun dog. Do you still have him?’
‘Well, I do.’ Deegan is set back on his heel but he recovers quickly. ‘I bought him last September but I’ve little time for hunting and it’s a shame to see him wasted.’
Deegan goes on to describe a retriever. He begins to talk easily about pheasants and how his dog can rise them, how the soup off a pheasant tastes finer than anything you can find in a hotel. He talks about the turf basket and how it is never empty since the dog came to the house. As soon as he mentions turf, the man smiles but Deegan does not notice, for he is remembering the girl on her birthday and how she and the retriever now bathe in the same water. But it is too late to back down.
From the archives
·
1987
The Medusa Frequency
At three o'clock in the morning Eurydice is bound to come into it. After all, why did I sit here like a telegrapher at a lost outpost if not to receive messages from everywhere about the lost Eurydice who was never mine to begin with but whom I lamented and sought continually both professionally and amateurishly. This is not a digression. Where I am at three o'clock in the morning - and by now every hour is three o'clock in the morning - there are no digressions, it's all one thing.
LET ME NOT BE REAL, the Kraken said again.
There was nothing I could say about that and I didn't know what to say so I said nothing.
YOU DON'T TELL ME THAT I'M NOT REAL.
Again I didn't say anything.
THEN I AM REAL. I HAVE BEEN THOUGHT OF TOO MANY TIMES UNTIL THERE HAS COME TO BE SUCH A THING AS I, THE KRAKEN, LIVING WHERE I LIVE AND PERCIPIENT ALWAYS.
Tell me about your beginnings.
Read more of this excerpt...
The Medusa Frequency
At three o'clock in the morning Eurydice is bound to come into it. After all, why did I sit here like a telegrapher at a lost outpost if not to receive messages from everywhere about the lost Eurydice who was never mine to begin with but whom I lamented and sought continually both professionally and amateurishly. This is not a digression. Where I am at three o'clock in the morning - and by now every hour is three o'clock in the morning - there are no digressions, it's all one thing.
LET ME NOT BE REAL, the Kraken said again.
There was nothing I could say about that and I didn't know what to say so I said nothing.
YOU DON'T TELL ME THAT I'M NOT REAL.
Again I didn't say anything.
THEN I AM REAL. I HAVE BEEN THOUGHT OF TOO MANY TIMES UNTIL THERE HAS COME TO BE SUCH A THING AS I, THE KRAKEN, LIVING WHERE I LIVE AND PERCIPIENT ALWAYS.
Tell me about your beginnings.
Read more of this excerpt...