On "A River So Long" by Lynn Watson (250 words) ***

Beautiful writing here, and some kind of strange idea. This is a short short that does well what short shorts often do best--convey some sort of mystery in a moment. It's that mystery that makes this more than the sum of its parts. A woman and man spend the night in a hotel room, and later that night, the woman looks out on the Mississippi River, and some kind of transformational experience ensues. The river has power, as does the story, though in both cases, one isn't sure exactly why. Read the story here at 971 Menu.

On "The Suicide Note My Dad Forgot to Leave Me" by David Erlewine (165 words) ***

I read this mostly because of the title. But it's a really good piece beyond that. Thing is, while reading the details that are presented in the list that is this story, I was taken with the oddities and humor. Where the piece gets it's power, though, is in the title. These random thoughts collected as they are are interesting--string them up to this title, and they become very sad. Read the story here at 971 Menu.

On "His Face" by David Erlewine (186 words) ***

Here's a short piece about malevolence. Whether it starts off that way, I'm not sure. To what extent the wrongs are in the narrator's head are slightly unclear. But then, it appears to descend into something nightmarish and horrifying--for all involved. That we're dealing with children here and disease and death is what makes this piece so fascinating. Were we to know more, we might not want to look--or we might find it absolutely ridiculous. Kept short, the piece remains captivating. Read it here at 971 Menu.

On "Rubber Bands" by David Torrey Peters (486 words) ***

The menu is back--971 Menu, that is--which means I can highlight a few stories from the archives that were inaccessible for a few months.

Here's a story I like first and foremost for its idea. Take a beach and remove the sand and put in, instead, rubber bands. (I'm not giving away a lot here--that all happens in the first line.) Peters takes this concept and runs with it--or bounces. We learn all about what folks do. And just as he's about to close, he throws in a line that makes it seem personal, makes it seem like many a story one might tell--about the snowstorm you got stuck in or the tornado that swooped away your neighbor's garage. It's that kind of story. Nothing pretentious. Just talk. (I could see a much longer version being absolutely fascinating, if not too carried away by the situation.) Read the piece here at 971 Menu.