Fiction | April 24, 2018
Kimmo in the Pisgah
Sara Read
The man we called Great Uncle Kimmy lived three quarters of his life alone in a cabin perched on a mountainside so steep that if you stepped wrong in anger or in drink you’d wind up in the creek bed deep at the bottom of the holler. There lay the remains (he said) of a Model A Ford, a hundred-year-old still, and two commercial-grade highway lawnmowers. If you wound up down there, you’d never be found, but it wouldn’t matter because you’d be dead. No one and nothing (he said) ever went down into the bottom of that holler besides the things meant to by nature, and nothing not meant to go there by nature ever came out.
This story is not currently available online.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?
Subscribe TodaySEE THE ISSUE
SUGGESTED CONTENT
Fiction
Aug 05 2019
Fields of Empire
My father, who meant well about some things and not about others, died at seventy, not that old. He’d been living in our house in New Jersey, with caretakers around… read more
Fiction
Aug 05 2019
Life After People
“You’re late,” says Jesse on Tuesday, as I slide into a seat beside him. “Traffic,” I say. “Hmruphh,” says Jesse. “And what did I miss?” Jesse makes a shushing sound.… read more
Fiction
Aug 05 2019
Soft
Shar took the afternoon off work to sit in a circle of student desks with four of her daughter’s teachers. Mrs. Burrows, who had called the meeting, handed her an… read more