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 was once killed. notwithstanding Reed and her son have been unhurt and Reed before everything defined herself as "fine," within the months that she will be engulfed in a typhoon of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring felony court cases over the coincidence. In An unintended Memoir, Reed, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, issues the lens at herself and explores that coincidence and a succession of private reports via truth and fiction. instructed from strange views and in hugely figurative language, the tales draw at the Southern Gothic culture of Flannery O'Connor and have darkish humor, unsuitable humans, disastrous occasions, and moments of religious grace. Taken jointly, this selection of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales develop into a meditation on topics comparable to paintings, kinfolk duties, loss of life, and elevating a...
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Additional resources for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
Regardless of how death had come to the steer, how the end had been delivered to this creature, I could smell the scent of sage in the air. I was still breathing. The scent was strong but sweet, and for the briefest of seconds, I enjoyed the primal scream of my adrenal glands. Even though I was not fighting or fleeing, I sucked hard at this hit of noradrenaline as I always do. And I knew somewhere in the depths of my primitive urges that this high was at the root of why my life was such a mess.
I finally get the ER registrar’s attention. She looks nice enough, a little blurry around the edges, maybe, but nice. Perhaps she’s melting. ” she barks. Her voice hasn’t melted, that’s for sure. On second thought, maybe I’ll just go back home and lie down. If I could’ve, I probably would’ve. But my balance was getting a little suspect. I cleared my throat and leaned in. “This is rather embarrassing,” I start, only to have her interrupt me. “No, this is an Emergency room in a Hospital,” she says, like I can’t read all the signs.
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. Led. Med. Ned. Ped. Red. Said. Ted. Ved. Wed. Zed. Dead. And if I’m dead, my body will be dead. Spread out on the tile-stamped linoleum like a bad throw rug. One that doesn’t even match. Well, this is unexpected. It won’t do at all to be findable so I’ve got to destroy the evidence.