Stories That Make No Sense

So, we didn’t get any Letters to the Editor this month. I guess we’re not making people angry enough.

Anyway, we’ve decided to be proactive about getting folks to respond. After last month’s essay on “forgiving Bono”, we want to hear what your favorite U2 albums are. Send an email to reviews@burnsidewriterscollective.com with a list of your five favorite U2 albums. The responses will be compiled into a definitive list in our next issue. Feel free to explain your reasons.

In the meantime, I’m going to post one of those fascinating junk mail/pulp fiction pieces, edited to make it more readable. From the story, you will learn why Carl’s Jr. is named Hardee’s in the South, and why I’ve never gotten around to reading Gone With the Wind. Enjoy!

“Oh, all right. I promise,” said Scarlett, looking down at her in bewilderment.
Meades continued, “…and tell her to come over and sit with me.”
A roaring sound, like the breaking of surf, rose from the crowd.
“Ask her to come up or send her mammy,” she hesitated again before going upstairs to Melanie, who sat up hastily, rubbing her eyes, and her worried heart took up yesterday’s load again. After a prolonged time she was back. Alone.
“Theyre coming,” whispered Melanie, undeceived, and buried her face in the pillow.
Scarlett glared at her and Prissy shrank back, trying to pull loose.
“Just send word to him that we’ll need him sometime today.”
Through it all, the dull far-off thundering persisted, rolling into her ears in waves of fear.
“The Yankees are coming and the troops are moving out of town. God in Heaven, suppose the baby came before the doctor arrived! Why do you think it will be today, Melly?”
Wade came tiptoeing up the stairs and stood outside the door, wailing.
She twisted endlessly: to one side, to the other, to the left, to the right and back again. She sat up hastily, rubbing her eyes, and her worried heart took up yesterdays load again.
“Why do you think it will be today, Melly?” Prissy asked again.
The message was from General Hardee and it said: “I have lost the battle and am in full retreat.”
Scarlett walked to Melanie’s door and opened it a crack, peering into the sunny room. Then she walked to the window and looked down the street and came back and sat down again. Throughout the afternoon, her voice went on like an animal dying in a trap.
“Rain,” she thought in the first moment, and her country-bred mind added, “we certainly need it.”
And now in this hour of greatest need, there was no one.