Mixed Gourmet Fruit

Ignoring the plate nearby, she stabs the fork into the plastic bowl of fruit.  She eats the cantaloupe first because there is too much of it.  Then the honeydew; she likes honeydew.  The blueberry is tasteless and the strawberry is sour.  She sits and stares idly out the window, twirling the fork in her hand.  Vague thoughts about sentences and American lit wander through her mind.  She glances down and finds a piece of mango.  This is something worth savoring.  She digs around for another piece, but there is only one more, so she eats it slowly and thinks about orange fruit and how nice it all is.  Cantaloupe, mangoes, clementines, oranges.  Oranges are redundant.  She tries the pineapple and it is sweet.  Several pieces later, she is snapping the lid back onto the container and reading the label.  "Pineapple (Costa Rica)."  She has a friend from Costa Rica.  There is a punctuation error, it should be "its," not "it's."  People are always putting apostrophes where they don't belong.  

"Masterpieces"

I've been reading short stories.  One night last month, I babysat for my brother and sister-in-law while they went out for their anniversary.  They came home at midnight and he handed me a paperback chunk of a book.  "To say thank you."  American Short Story Masterpieces.

That's one of the things I've always loved about my brother.  He could just as easily have handed me money or a trinket or nothing at all.  But he brought me a book.  Specifically, a book he had read and enjoyed and appreciated.  So they went to Powell's and he found the same book and he bought it for me because he knows I appreciate books and I trust his taste in them.

I've been reading my way through it ever since then.  In airplanes, on porch swings, at kitchen tables.  Some stories I like better than others, but there are none I truly dislike.  Even if I don't care for the story itself, I can still appreciate the crafting of it.

As I've been reading, I've been noticing.  Most of them center around some sad theme, whether it is a death, a broken marriage, or some other hard occurrence.  In a writing class, we called them universal truths - a grand, sweeping name for a gritty reality.  The majority of these stories contain little hope.  Characters wrestle with their troubles all alone, the end of the tale coming before a solid resolution is found.

I suppose this is one of the characteristics of a short story.  It is, after all, only a quick glance through a window into someone's life.  We never see the whole interior, just one room.  Perhaps our fictional friends and acquaintances and enemies go on to discover better things.  But from what we do see, there is no evidence of true joy.  And it makes me wonder if the authors were also lacking the hope they never gave to their characters.


Read the book: American Short Story Masterpieces, Edited by Raymond Carver and Tom Jenks