By Wendy Reed
On a wet Tuesday morning in 1996, Wendy Reed's motor vehicle hydroplaned, crossed an interstate median, and crashed into an oncoming motor vehicle, whose motive force used to be killed. although Reed and her son have been unhurt and Reed first and foremost defined herself as "fine," within the months that she will be engulfed in a hurricane of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring criminal court cases over the coincidence. In An unintentional Memoir, Reed, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, issues the lens at herself and explores that twist of fate and a succession of private reviews via truth and fiction. informed from strange views and in hugely figurative language, the tales draw at the Southern Gothic culture of Flannery O'Connor and have darkish humor, wrong humans, disastrous occasions, and moments of religious grace. Taken jointly, this selection of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales turn into a meditation on matters equivalent to paintings, kinfolk obligations, loss of life, and elevating a...
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Extra resources for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
You must’ve been scared to death,” they soothed. My father wasn’t kind. ” he hurled at us. But I was high; nuts was far below. Scott was bandaged, down twenty dollars, and badly shaken. I was sucking on my adrenals, toying with the different versions of the story I would tell. Our parents encouraged us to marry soon after. They thought boinking inevitable and wanted us to have a safe place to do it, I guess. Besides, I was starting as the first UAB high school intern and would work in surgery rather than going to school the last half of my senior year.
Sleep deprivation is the leading cause of disease in the country. It’s sure made my head hurt. Given enough time, it can strip a body to the quick. After the Unisom and tequila, something occurs to me. I won’t wake up tired—I won’t wake up at all. Unbelievable. I’m about to be dead. It’s so unbelievable I want to call someone. You’re not gonna believe this. On second thought, better not. They may think I’m nuts. Dead. Dead. Dead. What a word. It rhymes with everything: Bed. Fed. Head. Jed. Keds.
He hurled at us. But I was high; nuts was far below. Scott was bandaged, down twenty dollars, and badly shaken. I was sucking on my adrenals, toying with the different versions of the story I would tell. Our parents encouraged us to marry soon after. They thought boinking inevitable and wanted us to have a safe place to do it, I guess. Besides, I was starting as the first UAB high school intern and would work in surgery rather than going to school the last half of my senior year. I walked down the aisle of Huffman Baptist’s chapel, one excited seventeen-year-old with a license to fuck.