by Joy Williams
from the September 30, 2019 issue of The New Yorker
I‘ve been very busy this last month, and I’m hoping that will change soon, but for now I will just have to post a place for folks interested to discuss “The Fellow,” by Joy Williams, an author I admire greatly.
This story is quite short, so hopefully a lot of us will have a chance to read it and see what mysteries it holds.
Here is how it starts:
I had been the assistant to the director for less than a year. The important qualification for the job was to have no fear of water. None. And I did not. Only one thing moved me: the appearance in my head of the river horse. The guests, the Fellows, weren’t supposed to have any fear of water, either, but often they lied. This hadn’t mattered for some time, because the creek was dry, the creek was ashen. Children, having collected pretty stones from the wetness in the past only to see them grow dull on a shelf, thought that all the stones, everywhere, had died, even the ones they’d left behind.
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