Nothing Gold Can Stay: Stories
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From Ron Rash, PEN / Faulkner Award finalist and New York Times bestselling author of Serena, comes a new collection of unforgettable stories set in Appalachia that focuses on the lives of those haunted by violence and tenderness, hope and fear—spanning the Civil War to the present day.
The darkness of Ron Rash’s work contrasts with its unexpected sensitivity and stark beauty in a manner that could only be accomplished by this master of the short story form.
Nothing Gold Can Stay includes 14 stories, including Rash’s “The Trusty,” which first appeared in The New Yorker.
do indeed come from England, madam,” Wilson said, “but my mother is a proud Scot and I too proudly claim the heritage of thistle and bagpipe.” The proclamation was a bit disingenuous. Wilson’s mother, though born in Scotland, had moved to London at sixteen and rarely spoken of her Scots roots. Nor had she encouraged her son to think of himself as anything but English. The sole acknowledgment was a blue-and-black tartan that hung, rather forlornly, on an attic wall. The old woman made no reply,
wide as a tractor tire. “A logger nearly cut his arm off this morning. Tonya and I got a lot of it up but the floor needs a good scouring.” “Yes sir,” I say, and check the clock. “I left five more dollars, for the extra work on the floor,” Dr. Blanton says, and takes out his keys. “Tell Kerrie the man that brought her into this world says to be careful, doctor’s orders.” “We’ll tell her,” Ellen says. Dr. Blanton leaves and Ellen goes in to make sure the Skype camera works and that the chat
what Jody wanted to major in at college and he said engineering. Education, she answered when asked the same question. Ninth grade was when students from upper Haywood were bused to Canton to attend the county’s high school. Unlike the other boys he’d grown up with, Jody didn’t fill a seat in the school’s vocational wing. Instead, he entered classrooms where most of the students came from town. Their parents weren’t necessarily wealthy, but they’d grown up in families where college was an
won’t need to explain it, she told herself, but I’m at least going to go see. Sabra eased out the front door and headed to the barn, the porch’s bare bulb, and habit, guiding her. She was almost to the barn mouth when she saw the small orange glow, thought it a lightning bug until she turned on the flashlight. Thomas sat on the barn floor, his back against a stable door. Wendy sat a few feet away. A bright-yellow backpack lay between them. “Daddy don’t allow lit cigarettes in the barn,” Sabra
paid more than cutting lawns. Our only break was thirty minutes for lunch. We’d sit on the porch and eat what he brought out, usually bologna sandwiches and chips, cans of Coke to wash it down with. He’d eat with us, but never said much except to complain about spilt paint or bent nails. Part of it was him being nearly deaf, but Ben had told us Mr. Ponder had never been outgoing, even before his wife had died. All that summer we were out there, no one but the mailman stopped by, and all he did