“Hand Me Down Blood” by T.J. Forrester
published in The Mississippi Review online

T.J. Forrester knows how to write compelling fiction. In each of his stories, there is truly something at stake. In this story, it’s a man’s future—his pending sobriety, the struggle with his identity, the redemption of his self. The characters Forrester chooses to write about are rarely easy to like—they are sex addicts living, or dying, with AIDS, audacious pre-pubescents hitting on nine-year-old girls, ex-cons with chips on their shoulders and drink in their blood—and yet you always do. Like them, that is. And isn’t that what makes a great writer? The ability to draw you into a world you previously knew nothing about, keep you there, and make you give a crap in the process? A lot of us don’t even give that much consideration to our own lives…

Essentially, I think, that is the role of story—to make you pause and give consideration to your own life. Even through events and characters that are little like you, good fiction can reach through those differences and shake you awake, if only for a second. It’s often seconds, however, that irreversibly change you.

T.J. Forrester’s stories stay with me a long time—in fact, I haven’t forgotten any of his work that I’ve read—and I’m betting this story will stay with you, too. Click on “Hand Me Down Blood” and read about a man, recently released from prison, who returns to his hometown to collect his inheritance check and finds a street dog that could end up saving him.

Here are a couple of excerpts to get you started. Below them, you will find T.J.’s comments on this story.

On the street, friends were like Styrofoam cups. Some got crushed, others blew out of sight. Nothing was permanent on the street. A guy went to prison and a week later he never existed.

*

From that point on, Monday through Friday I fed and watered dogs, then cleaned cages with a water hose. Every other Wednesday I herded dogs down a hallway and into the gas chamber. Some dogs went with tails between their legs, others growled and snapped. My father shut the door, turned knobs, and stood in front of the porthole. I stood to the side and watched him reflect the struggle behind the glass. It was like watching a slide show where one picture fades into the next. The first few seconds he was the man who left the house after eating cereal for breakfast, a man in a hat and untied shoes headed for his everyday job. As time progressed–time that felt like hours but was only a few stretched-out minutes–his body stiffened like he resisted a strong wind. The skin on his face stretched and his jaw melded into something cold and hard and immovable. I looked at him for as long as I could, then looked away. When it was over, and I looked back, I saw another man altogether. But this was someone I recognized. This was the man who left work and headed to the bar. His voice was brittle, his eyes held defiant shame. His movement, when he lifted carcasses and put them in the wheel barrel, was slow and shaky. I wanted to put my arm around him and tell him it was okay, but we didn’t have that kind of relationship.

Author’s Comments: Thank you, Kelly. I’d also like to thank Darlin’ Neal, who edited this issue of The Mississippi Review. She is an insightful and patient editor.

Whenever I’m asked to comment on one of my stories, I open a BASS and ogle the section where writers tell stories about their stories. I’m clueless how they remember so many details about the creative process. Also, I’m jealous they are that smart. My brain is a bucket full of holes. Whatever is in there doesn’t stay for long. Except for drafts. I write a draft, let a year go by, and I can still remember the story word for word.

A good story is greater than the sum of its parts. A writer can tell you about the parts, but that’s about it. He’s too close to his work to experience it like a reader. When a writer tells about his story, smile and say how wonderful, then feed him tequila until he passes out. He’ll thank you in the morning.

“Hand Me Down Blood” is about characters at risk. And that’s all I have to say about that.