The Last Shot: Eleven Stories and a Novella
Leon Rooke
Language: English
Pages: 240
ISBN: 0887623581
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
From one of Canada's most compelling and imaginative writers of short fiction comes a new collection of eleven stories and a novella. With stories both magical and unexpected, Leon Rooke astounds with his approach to the art of storytelling. From the novella about the surreal adventures of Prissy Thibidault in the deep south watching alligator wrestling while white racists turn into blacks; to stories that include the strange wanderings of a boy called Dark in search of his mother; the escape of a couple of gay friends from their respective relationships for the bright lights of Paris;
they were managing to spend, in the wonderful sights they had seen. “Glorious! Glorious!” Darlene said. “Oh, the colour! The colour!” “Glorious! Isn’t it glorious!” “Two weeks isn’t nearly enough,” Bebert opined. “We should have come for months! A year! For forever.” “Exactly! Exactement! Precisely!” “The escargot! I’ve never eaten such escargot!” “This soufflé! Whoever ate such a soufflé!” “Exactement! Woo! Stupendous!” “Très magnificat!” And they meant it, too. They were in heaven.
transportation of an open bottle, charged with deadly intent to erase a law officer, charged with running a roadblock, charged with having in his possession a pound bag of uncut heroin, with assault of a deputy, with defacing a State Historical Marker, with utterance of an abusive language, charged with any heap of things, he told Prissy. “And hit a powerful help me to have a cousin was a crusading born-again Commie-hating, disintegrationist Washington senator and my judge a founding member of
first fearful, then nodding. Yes. Yes, she said. You are innocent. I absolve thee. Such a relief that was to him; his eyes moistened, he would have called her back had he the means. He was not her nemesis. Her nemesis was within. Clean her body with sand. Elevate the face to the southerly direction. Oil the soles of the feet. Fold a bone within each hand. Seven times encircle her body. Each time snip away a cutting of hair, a cutting of nail, a snippet of cloth. Wedge of skin cut from the
miles to one, to another: scarcely any difference. Docking is always for him the hard part. He has never got the hang of docking a ship of this size. A junior officer must take the helm. It is good training for them. They like the job. No one suspects. Except for that curious passenger down in the hole, asleep among the pomegranates: the Captain is fairly certain this passenger knows the score. Their eyes have met. But the passenger is listless, he exerts no authority. His power to influence
call.” ALL TRUE STORIES HAVE LOOSE ENDS Your Worship: I had this job and I wasn’t good at it so I got another job. I wasn’t any better at that job and within hours I was walking the pavement. Over the years I’ve had about a thousand jobs. I wasn’t any good at any of them. There seemed to be nothing I could do well; even the most simple task—walking a dog, cleaning a toilet, beating brush in a field—defeated me. I didn’t have the knack. Fire in the gut, enthusiasm, the desire to