Our Current Issue
Volume 34 | Issue 1 | 2020
From "What the Afternoon Knew" (p. 53)
by Lucie Barron Eggleston
“Pat?” I called, easing up on my right arm and looking around. I wondered if it was safe to move. I didn’t see the car. “Pat?” I said, this time louder. “Pat?”.
No Pat. No VW. I put my weight on my right hand, trying to push up to stand, trying to get my balance. Rocks, scrubby vegetation, red muddy earth. Slowly I started looking out, more rocks, more scrub, a tortured track, and way down below there was the car. At the base of the mountain. Upright. No smoke. No horn blaring.
But still no Pat. I squatted, braced my hands back on the rocks and mud, started edging my way down. My sporty navy flats I’d bought for the trip had no traction. I had to get to Pat. Rocks and mud, nothing but scrub to hold onto. “Pat,” I called. Say something, anything! “Pat!” I was screaming now.
About Concho River Review
Begun by novelist and short-story writer Dr. Terry Dalrymple in 1987, Concho River Review is a biannual literary journal published by the Department of English and Modern Languages at Angelo State University. Since its inception, CRR has prided itself on publishing some of the finest short fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from both emerging and established authors. Although originally designed as a forum for Texas writers, over the years its reach and interests have extended well beyond Texas and the Southwest.