On "Second Encounter" by Xujun Eberlein (2981 words) ****

The last story in Eberlein's fine collection, this piece focuses on forgiveness and on the way that time and space can make for odd friends, as a victim confronts his one-time would-be assassin. Read the story here at Paumanok Review.

On "Aftercare" by Steven Gillis (4870 words) ***

Paumonok Review doesn't publish anymore, at least online, which is a shame, because the review has a nice archive of good material.

By way of introduction to Steven Gillis's story, I am going to recount an anecdote that seems pertinent. A few years ago, a man at church was talking about a woman that he met while traveling. They hung out together on his journey and afterword exchanged, I guess, a few messages. But then she stopped writing back. He was due to take another trip, but the circumstances of that trip he was leaving somewhat open in order to give leeway for his girlfriend--this woman he'd met and corresponded with. It had been several months since he'd heard from her, but still he held off making plans, often noting how he was doing X, unless his gal wanted to come, then he'd do Y. "Honey," a woman at church finally told him, "that woman isn't interested." To outsiders, it seemed plain to all, but to him the circumstances didn't seem that plain at all. I too wrestle with those sort of things. Talk to a woman on the phone once a week for fifteen minutes who's very nice to you, but does that mean anything? Probably not--or maybe it does. Take of it the meaning you want and spin it accordingly.

Gillis's story trods this same ground--a woman in love with a married man. We know the circumstance, and we know the woman has no hope. But the ability of people to deceive themselves holds forth as supreme, and watching this woman continue to believe despite all is quite sad indeed. Watching her get her revenge is a bit mystifying--perhaps stretching credulity--but somehow appropriate. Read it here at Paumanok.

"Duvall Street" by David McGrath (6866 words) ****

I'm not a big fan of stories about writers--or writing. I have this bias against writing that is, in part, about the craft of itself. I guess I figure such subjects are too much like self-reflection and too inclined toward being about something that affects a much smaller portion of the general population than of writers themselves--that is, that there are more writers in fiction than there are in any general group of people. Are these biases justified? Probably not. (Where I live, certainly more people seem to be musicians or artists than writers, but there are plenty of the latter as well--and plenty of others who take on the name, or the idea of being a writer, but who don't actually write. I myself try to avoid the term altogether when talking of what I do--beyond, say, a hobby. I don't want to be mistaken for taking such a thing so seriously, even if--given the amount of time I devote to it--maybe I do.)

McGrath's story, however, managed to get past those self-inflicted boundaries, managed to hook me and keep me reading. I love how this writer is perennially writing in his head and in various notes, perennially editing himself. I love that he takes himself so seriously--and yet, like so many, probably isn't anything more than some person who writes an interesting tale once in a while but never anything that will garner some wide-level appeal. I love that his stories mimic whose own life in all its ugliness. Simply put, I love this story. Maybe you will to. Read it here at Paumanok Review.