Hellgoing: Stories

Hellgoing: Stories

Lynn Coady

Language: English

Pages: 240

ISBN: 1770893083

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

With astonishing range and depth, Scotiabank Giller Prize finalist Lynn Coady gives us eight unforgettable new stories, each one of them grabbing our attention from the first line and resonating long after the last.

A young nun charged with talking an anorexic out of her religious fanaticism toys with the thin distance between practicality and blasphemy. A strange bond between a teacher and a schoolgirl takes on ever deeper, and stranger, shapes as the years progress. A bride-to-be with a penchant for nocturnal bondage can’t seem to stop bashing herself up in the light of day.

Equally adept at capturing the foibles and obsessions of men and of women, compassionate in her humour yet never missing an opportunity to make her characters squirm, fascinated as much by faithlessness as by faith, Lynn Coady is quite possibly the writer who best captures what it is to be human at this particular moment in our history.

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had nurtured ambitions to be an actor. Ha ha. He thought Hollywood was bullshit, as you do, but great acting, like woodworking, was a marriage of craft and art. Ha. And, okay, the truth was, acting was not an entirely unreasonable ambition for Ames. He was, Erin admitted, “beautiful,” all rangy limbs and the obligatory mid-nineties shaggy dis­habille, a look that still made Erin a little giddy, like when she came across old photos of Kurt Cobain or the Soundgarden guy. Every once in a while Ames

don’t so much as lift a hammer down here. Sean had no idea what he would do with the Saint Andrew’s Cross when the time came. Likely he would just end up throwing a tarp over it and hoping no one got curious. DID YOU AND Ames ever do this kind of stuff? Sean wanted to know after Erin moved in. Ames and I had twenty-something sex, she said. Where you do it constantly and think you must be having a blast. You weren’t enjoying it? You don’t have to say that, you know. You think

her glasses she had a sweet, round face with a bow mouth like a fifties starlet. “I’m sorry if that was unexpected, I know poetry isn’t my forte.” “It was wonderful,” said Betty and started clapping. A couple of people in Betty’s group made noises of agreement and picked up the applause. Marguerite looked around, gathered up her pages and left the podium, which was awkward because she was expected to read for another fifteen minutes or so. Sara was in the middle of a glass of wine, so

conditioner up the stairs herself? “It’s just so warm,” she persisted. “And I can’t really open the windows to get a cross breeze.” “Right,” he said. “Well, I could come by.” “Would you?” “Of course,” he said. But he put it off for over a week. Then she called again. Cal apologized. He’d been very busy. His daughter’s graduation coming up. Lots of activity. To his surprise, the fine weather hadn’t abated. He had supposed the temperature would drop again and she would see

was no time for conversation the day of their surfing lesson, an experience that was somehow exhilarating and tedious all at once. When Hart first proposed it, she’d imagined the California stereotype, soaring atop the waves in a bikini, but the water was apparently never warm on this coast, not even at the height of summer. She and Hart were zipped from head to toe in two-inch-thick elephant-skins of neoprene — they even had the option to wear hoods, an option Kim accepted. She pulled it over

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