Remembrance: A Short Horror Story

30 Very Short Tales Of Horror That Are Better Than Most Scary Movies You’ve Watched

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In the early morning hours of November 11, David MacDonald, a veteran of the Second World War, stands outside his Cape Breton home, preparing to attend what will likely be From the internationally celebrated author of No Great Mischief comes a moving short story of three generations of men from a single family whose lives are forever altered by the long shadow of war. In the early morning hours of November 11, David MacDonald, a veteran of the Second World War, stands outside his Cape Breton home, preparing to attend what will likely be his last Remembrance Day parade.

As he waits for the arrival of his son and grandson, he remembers his decision to go to war in desperation to support his young family. He remembers the horrors of life at the frontlines in Ortona, Italy, and then what happened in Holland when the Canadians arrived as liberators. He remembers how the war devastated his own family, but gave him other reasons to live. As the story unfolds, other generations enter the scene.

What emerges is an elegant, life-affirming meditation on the bond between fathers and sons, "how the present always comes out of the past," and how even in the midst of tragedy and misfortune there exists the possibility for salvation. His first new short story in over a decade, Remembrance is a powerful reminder of why Alistair MacLeod is one of the most beloved storytellers of our time.

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To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Remembrance , please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Usually I like to review books based around a summary of their plot, but as the title of this story is called 'Remembrance', I'll offer up some thoughts that feel a little more in keeping Though he'd long held an iconic — and in some ways almost mystical — status among Canadian writers, Alastair MacLeod really appeared on the radar for most readers in when his only novel, 'No Great Mischief', a quietly towering, multi-generational treatise on tradition and family ties, won the prestigious Usually I like to review books based around a summary of their plot, but as the title of this story is called 'Remembrance', I'll offer up some thoughts that feel a little more in keeping Though he'd long held an iconic — and in some ways almost mystical — status among Canadian writers, Alastair MacLeod really appeared on the radar for most readers in when his only novel, 'No Great Mischief', a quietly towering, multi-generational treatise on tradition and family ties, won the prestigious IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.

By that stage, he was already one of my small obsessions, had been from the day, some time in the early '90s, that I happened across a collection of his short stories while browsing the shelves of Cork City Library. It was the title, a six-word poem: Knowing nothing about its author, I sat, started to read, and happily gave up an entire afternoon of my life to those pages. Then I took the book home and read it again and again, peeling back layers, pouring over the seamless sentences and losing myself within their rhythms. And two qualities stood out for me above all else: No one can read Alistair MacLeod's stories and not believe them.

At that point, I had already begun to write, though without any confidence or direction.

His stories were a revelation. They read almost as memoir and had what Hemingway's stories had: Cape Breton was MacLeod's world, and the world of his people all the way back to the Highland Clearances, and it insinuated every pore of every word he wrote. But even though he kept his horizons close, the innate honesty of his work, and his relentless weighing of the human heart, ensured that it would always transcend the specific.

His were the stories of people everywhere. In , I was invited, as part of a small group of Irish writers, to attend the 11th International Short Story Conference, being held that year in Toronto. My first question was whether or not Alistair MacLeod would be there. The answer was a thrilling yes. Meeting our idols can often disappoint.

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Often, but not always. On the afternoon of my reading, in a York University classroom, he was part of an audience of less than two dozen people.

I attempted to pour a glass of water but was shaking so hard with nerves that I put ice everywhere. When I looked up from my book, his was the first face I saw, looking back at me and smiling ever so slightly. Afterwards he sought me out and told me how much he'd enjoyed my story, and though my natural insecurity insisted that I put his kind words down to politeness and even pity, I still felt immensely grateful, and proud. And then, little by very little, I got to know him. He was multiples of everything I had imagined he would be.

Shortish, stocky and ruddy cheeked, decked out in a flat cap and with the Order of Canada, his nation's highest civilian honour, pinned proudly to his lapel, he was a man of gentle and generous nature, easy with stillness and easier still with smiles, a man whose voice when spinning some yarn held all the softness of a sigh. Following his IMPAC win, both collections were combined, along with two new stories for a sum total of sixteen, in a volume called 'Island', which should be essential reading not only for anyone with ambitions towards writing, but for anyone with a heartbeat.

In a career spanning nearly fifty years, he was anything but prolific, yet the precision and musicality of his language, and the wholeness and assurance of his vision, ensured that there was not a single missed note anywhere in the work. Few can boast as much. Following on from that first time I met him, I had the immense pleasure of interviewing him by phone, an interview that I was doing for the Irish Examiner and which turned into a long, long chat about stories and books, of the sort that I'd hoped would never end.

Our paths also crossed twice more, on both occasions in Cork, both for me memorable beyond easy words. The last time, months before his death, he gave a lovely reading from a new work, 'Remembrance', the seventeenth story he'd written and his first in over a decade. Though it's really a long short story and is most easily accessed as an ebook, through all the usual outlets , it has the density, girth and quiet subtlety common to a lot of his best work and carries the sense of being something greater than its size.

It's also a beautiful, poignant tale of war's aftermath, about how the present is always shaped by the past, and stands a most fitting closing note to a perfectly pitched career. View all 4 comments. What a wonderful story, what a wonderful gift MacLeod left us with. Read in a timely moment before Remembrance Day, Remembrance is a story that I wished there was more of to savour and enjoy.

It is the story of one man's final partaking in Remembrance Day ceremonies, as he's taken part in these every year since the ending of WWII. He wants to pass the torch onto the new and upcoming veterans of the Korean, Iraq and Afghanistan wars the ones he mentions. He feels his time spent going to the sch What a wonderful story, what a wonderful gift MacLeod left us with. He feels his time spent going to the schools, being in the parades, standing at the Cenotaph are done, and besides the veterans from WWI are all gone now and he's one of the very few left from WWII.

A wonderful look at the reasons for enlisting, memories of the war itself and the life that awaited him following his return. It's the story of his father, his son and his grandson. I easily could have read far more and wished it were that there was more to read. Jan 16, Anne rated it really liked it. As was hoped for, another short story by macleod and up to his usual usage of temporal language ensconced in dependent clauses to create temporal situations which create the oral story- telling tone and mood.

The best thing macleod does is take an ordinary story, inject it with "raw isms", distance the reader from anything unpalatable yet create raw responses. This story looks at three generations of men off to Remembrance Day.

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They don't communicate openly, and while this is obvious to the read As was hoped for, another short story by macleod and up to his usual usage of temporal language ensconced in dependent clauses to create temporal situations which create the oral story- telling tone and mood. They don't communicate openly, and while this is obvious to the reader, the same restraint is able to convey why they don't. A celebration of historic traditions merging with the modern world. It is a very short story but would give those who haven't prior knowledge of his brilliant writing, a morsel to entice them with.

In his last published work of fiction, fellow Canuck shines. His narrative is calm, soothing, detailed and seasoned like good storytelling should. He passed in the spring of and one of my writing mentors suggested I check out his work.

Too bad he only published a few books. I am curious to know what stories he took with him. I won't list the description here but this fast read is retrospective, sad, honest and beautiful. My favourite line "I go to stand and take my place within the continuum o In his last published work of fiction, fellow Canuck shines. My favourite line "I go to stand and take my place within the continuum of time. If you want to read a very short story, make it this one. A must in my opinion. Alistair MacLeod's stories are so heartfelt.

This one about the David MacDonalds illustrates how war, even if we are not immediately connected with it, affects us. His tale also shows how soldiers are often not patriots, but are inspired by economics. I would guess that this is true even now. The men wait by the wood pile and depart together to remember their roots, their connections and their history.

A classic image, not to be forgotten. MacLeod is, in my opinion, a supremely gifted writer. He could describe melting snow and make it an epic drama. I wish the story was much longer, but it was still very satisfying. Oct 26, Kathryn Laceby rated it it was amazing. It is astonishing how much detail was packed into so few pages while still taking the time to describe the surroundings.

The mere fact that the grandson is making the journey to Cape Breton to support his grandfather explains the purpose of this poignant short story. What is most unusual perhaps, is the insight into the life of grandfather during that brief period we are given to read. This short story was perfect and I could have happily read so much more- this author's writings will be missed. Thank you to Random House Canada for our review copy.

The kind that roots you to the spot with its sunken, hypnotic eyes, rendering you unable to flee as you watch the hideous thing uncoil from the shadows? Has your heart started racing though your legs refuse to? Have you felt time slow as the creature crosses the room in the darkness of a blink? Have you shuddered with fear when it places one clawed hand atop your head and another under your chin so it can tilt you, exposing your neck? Have you felt its hot breath release in a hiss against your skin when it probes your pulse — the flow that leads to your brain? Has its tongue rested there, throbbing slightly as if savoring the moment?

Have you then experienced a sinking, sucking blackness as you discover that not all vampires feed on blood — some feed on memories? But let me rephrase the question: Have you ever walked into a room and suddenly forgotten why you came in? Look to your left, to your right, under your bed, behind your dresser, in your closet, but never look up, she hates being seen. At first, it lasted only a few seconds.

Then it progressed into hours, days. Soon enough it turned into years. There were times I woke up screaming, confusing people around me because I thought I was the person in the dream. I talked to a therapist about it, he thought it was short-term memory loss or me reliving a past life or that kind of shit.

I tried to look up the people in my dreams, tried to find out who they were. I only found obituaries. Memory Loss It all started when I began preschool. My mother took me to a doctor who suggested I should receive a brain scan. Two small swellings in the hippocampus and prefrontal lobe. But in that moment, I forgot why we were there anyway. But sometimes, as I lay on my bed, the clock reading 9 p. This night though, when I turned on the news, I instantly remembered why I remember all these things.

Charlie I hate it when my brother Charlie has to go away. My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is; that I am lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations like undammed rivers. I always beg for them to give him one last chance. Of course, they did at first. Charlie has been back home several times, each shorter in duration than the last.

Every time without fail, it all starts again. They say his disorder makes him charming, makes it easy for him to fake normalcy, and to trick the doctors who care for him into thinking he is ready for rehabilitation. That I will just have to put up with my boredom if it means staying safe from him. I hate it when Charlie has to go away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he is back. No one even knew we were friends. On Tuesday, he stole the gun from his dad. On Thursday, while the entire school was in the gym, we waited just outside the doors.

I was to use the gun on whoever walked out first. Then he would take the gun and go into the gym blasting. I walked up to Mr. Quinn the guidance counselor and shot him in the face three times. He fell back into the gym, dead. The shots were deafening. We heard screams in the auditorium. No one could see us yet. I followed a moment after. Kids were scrambling and hiding. I ran up behind him and tackled him. I wrenched the gun out of his hands, turned it on him, and killed him. I closed his mouth forever.

On Friday, I was anointed a hero.

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It was indeed the perfect plan. When I was younger everyone thought I was just talking to imaginary friends. After a couple years, when I overheard my parents talk about calling a psychologist, I realized what I was talking to. Some of them could tell I was different, that I noticed them.

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Like this guy I saw after school yesterday. I went over, told him I knew what he was and asked how I could help him. Downstairs, my parents were crying. I tried talking to them but they ignored me. They must have died last night somehow. The Mannequin They delivered the mannequins in bubble wrap. From the main room I begin to hear popping.

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