The Reluctant Fisherman

[What follows is a short story I've been working on this week. I had hoped to publish it on the writing page of the main website, but because of a computer crash the programs necessary to make that happen—and, yes, there are several—are not longer available on my computer. As soon as I get the necessary software loaded onto my new computer, I'll probably move the page.
This story is an experiment in form and style. I do that occassionally, and this one worked better than most. Which is why I put it here.]

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Recently I’ve been revisiting some short stories from my freshman literature textbook (one of those five pound volumes that could be titled The Norton Anthology of Everything). Since I obtained this volume, several presidents have passed through the White House, Microsoft has truly become the most influential entity in the world, and I’ve lost a lot of hair and moved halfway across the country—all of which resulted in significant changes in the world and my perspective. So I suppose it’s only natural that I felt a certain melancholy as I flipped the pages of this relic from my academic antiquity, smiling as I tried to decipher my ancient margin notes.

Here were some familiar faces (Lawrence’s The Rocking Horse Winner, Roth’s Defender of the Faith), some not so familiar faces (Mansfield’s Miss Brill, O’Conner’s Greenleaf—how did I ever miss that one?), and some old friends (O. Henry’s A Municipal Report, which I consider one of the greatest short stories ever written—and which the editor of the anthology considered merely trite).

Oh yes—and then there’s Hills Like White Elephants.

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