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And Now the Sky is Falling

And Now the Sky is Falling FICTION Ralph Price The real events in our lives have no beginnings, no endings, sometimes not much in the middle. We make a nickel's worth of sense of our pasts by stringing memories like Cheerios. We remember color. We remember insults taken, but not those given. We remember being cold. We remember mistakes. Cars. Being in trouble, fobs. Or put another way, there are certain events (or time-spans pretending to be events) that come to the party that is our consciousness, then won't go home. Even after the incidental erosion of memory which has come with time and the river, there are probably ten or twelve of these globettes of personal history swimming around in my own bucket. Sometimes they seem like stories, good stories, just like I remember them. Sometimes they seem more like the leftovers from dreams. But gas or grist, I wanted to write as accurately as I could. I have tried to be a conscientious reporter, giving life to fact and figure, finding romance in the exactitude of detail, revealing the beauty in bone-hard truth. But sometimes it doesn't work. Even the objective eye-witness must look one way or he must look the other. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

And Now the Sky is Falling

Price, Ralph.
Appalachian Review , Volume 29 (1) – Jan 8, 2001
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
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Abstract

FICTION Ralph Price The real events in our lives have no beginnings, no endings, sometimes not much in the middle. We make a nickel's worth of sense of our pasts by stringing memories like Cheerios. We remember color. We remember insults taken, but not those given. We remember being cold. We remember mistakes. Cars. Being in trouble, fobs. Or put another way, there are certain events (or time-spans pretending to be events) that come to the party that is our consciousness, then won't go home. Even after the incidental erosion of memory which has come with time and the river, there are probably ten or twelve of these globettes of personal history swimming around in my own bucket. Sometimes they seem like stories, good stories, just like I remember them. Sometimes they seem more like the leftovers from dreams. But gas or grist, I wanted to write as accurately as I could. I have tried to be a conscientious reporter, giving life to fact and figure, finding romance in the exactitude of detail, revealing the beauty in bone-hard truth. But sometimes it doesn't work. Even the objective eye-witness must look one way or he must look the other.

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2001

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