Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby by Donald Barthelme
By Donald Barthelme
'I acknowledged that even though striking Colby was once potentially a criminal offense, we had an ideal ethical correct to take action simply because he used to be our pal, belonged to us in a variety of vital senses, and he had in spite of everything long gone too far.' Donald Barthelme is a puckish participant with language, a author of brief yet ceaselessly lucrative comedian gem stones, a philosopher and an experimenter. In those 9 brief tales, no matter if writing a couple of furry, donkeyish king or a touching, deepest gesture of city-sized proportions, his is a surreal, deadpan genius. This booklet comprises a few of Us have been Threatening Our good friend Colby, The Glass Mountain, i purchased a bit urban, The Palace at 4 A.M., Chablis, the varsity, Margins, online game and The Balloon.
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Extra info for Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby
Sample text
What are you eating. Whatever we can find. Whatever you can find. Yeah. He looked at the boy. You wont shoot, he said. That's what you think. You aint got but two shells. Maybe just one. And they'll hear the shot. Yes they will. But you wont. How do you figure that? Because the bullet travels faster than sound. It will be in your brain before you can hear it. To hear it you will need a frontal lobe and things with names like colliculus and temporal gyrus and you wont have them anymore. They'll just be soup.
Coughing. Then he heard on the road behind them what sounded like a diesel truck. Quick, he whispered. Quick. He shoved the pistol in his belt and grabbed the boy by the hand and he dragged the cart through the trees and tilted it over where it would not so easily be seen. The boy was frozen with fear. He pulled him to him. It's all right, he said. We have to run. Dont look back. Come on. He slung their knapsacks over his shoulder and they tore through the crumbling bracken. The boy was terrified.
One block at a time. A faint smell of woodsmoke on the air. They waited in a store and watched the street but nothing moved. They went through the trash and rubble. Cabinet drawers pulled out into the floor, paper and bloated cardboard boxes. They found nothing. All the stores were rifled years ago, the glass mostly gone from the windows. Inside it was all but too dark to see. They climbed the ribbed steel stairs of an escalator, the boy holding on to his hand. A few dusty suits hanging on a rack.