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Salty air, low lying clouds and crooning of seagulls near the towering Astoria Column and the flowing Columbia River set the scene for this collection of linked short stories. Each of Humanity’s Grace narratives elucidates opportunities and consequences that connect the collection’s characters: strangers, lovers, family members and friends. Frank, Anne, Monica and Sarah all reappear from pages of Montgomery’s novel, Beyond the Ripples. New characters, an elderly mother and her son, a police office and spouse, a childhood friend, a counselor, a bystander appear, all uniquely connected to a murder in downtown Astoria, Oregon.
The characters in Humanity’s Grace are each impacted differently as they experience joys and sorrows, and beginnings and endings. As in life, they intertwine as they laugh, scream and cry, do good or create evil. The untimely death of a man creates a spectrum of consequences for others: these loved ones, acquaintances, and strangers. The ensuing murder accusation throws a trio of characters into darkness, as they reassess earlier beliefs, past decisions and actions. A police officer haunted by his past. A young woman awakening from a vivid dream of a friend from before. A mother who wonders what she did wrong. A son who aches for others to be kind. A daughter who questions her father’s past, while her mother remembers parts of the man she had forgotten. A stranger wonders about the significance of a message she was given. In these stories, the author imparts the opportunity for the reader to meander through sorrow and sadness, joy and regret, all which remind us of the startling and collective beauty of life’s connections. |
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“In this mysterious and moving novel in stories, infused with pitch-perfect details of everyday life, ordinary people absorbed in their personal worlds of pain and loneliness seek connections with those around them, often strangers, in a web of relationships that becomes something extraordinary. Characters move in and out of each other’s lives, thoughts, and memories, their stories coalescing into a surprising and satisfying conclusion that ultimately, through various small acts of redemption realized along the way, does define a kind of fragile and yet tenable human grace.” — Jeff Fearnside, author of Making Love While Levitating Three Feet in the Air and A Husband and Wife Are One Satan
“Montgomery writes using the skills of a weaver; presenting rough fibers of life, sadness, and regrets, along with the soft thread of tenderness, love, and human relationships to create these stories; like a loom displays its almost finished right angles of cloth.” — Doug Erickson, co-author of Jefferson’s Western Explorations: Discoveries made in exploring the Missouri, Red River and Washita
“Life’s great moments are often quiet. Dede Montgomery has written a book made up of such moments, allowing readers to ponder and reflect on life.” — Tom Hallman Jr., a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and author
“Montgomery writes using the skills of a weaver; presenting rough fibers of life, sadness, and regrets, along with the soft thread of tenderness, love, and human relationships to create these stories; like a loom displays its almost finished right angles of cloth.” — Doug Erickson, co-author of Jefferson’s Western Explorations: Discoveries made in exploring the Missouri, Red River and Washita
“Life’s great moments are often quiet. Dede Montgomery has written a book made up of such moments, allowing readers to ponder and reflect on life.” — Tom Hallman Jr., a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and author
“Local author connects Astoria with short stories” by Patrick Webb in Our Coast Magazine
"In One Ear: 'Humanity's Grace'" By Elleda Wilson The Astorian
"Releasing Humanity’s Grace: Creating Stories, Selecting Genre" Women Writers, Women Books
"In One Ear: 'Humanity's Grace'" By Elleda Wilson The Astorian
"Releasing Humanity’s Grace: Creating Stories, Selecting Genre" Women Writers, Women Books
WHAT HAPPENED IN that last moment before the moment after? Paul’s hands had shot up to cover his ears, their trembling fingers adorned by nails chewed down to the quick. The blaring sirens had frightened him, blocking out images and memories from only moments before, irretrievable to him now, hours later. Rough knuckles and fingers had grabbed at his wrists, leaving them red and sore.
“Say something!” Garbled verbal commands loudly punctuated the blur of noises, foreign to him in that moment, as if coming from extraterrestrials.
“What did you say? Why are you here?”
These statements were undecipherable to him in those moments, blank dialogue bubbles floating above cartoon characters. Why are they yelling at me? Instead, Paul blindly struck out, terrified.
“Put your hands up and move away.” A voice penetrated through the cacophony of sirens, traffic, and voices
.
Paul shook then, vibrations searching to find a route out of his body. “Please leave me alone,” he whispered, as he dropped to the ground, shrugging into a fetal ball. “I was trying. I was trying to help.” The cement was cold and the smell of old piss emanated from its cracks. His unconscious mission now was only to take up as little space as possible and pray for a miracle. To disappear like the magician in a trick from his boyhood, the one he had always wanted to see repeated again and again.
“Get up!” echoed around him.
The voices were loud and angry to Paul, as if shot from a firing line. He did nothing wrong, he wanted to yell but fear immobilized him, making him unable to obey commands.
“Please,” he whispered again, believing uniformed people would protect him.
His eyes now locked tight: if only he would awaken as if from a nightmare, sweaty and shaking but soon after comforted by his familiar bedroom. A rented room he knew was safe, where he could walk to the grocery store and to his job as an animal tech supervised by a woman who never raised her voice. Oh no, he remembered. The yells, sirens, and blinking lights short-circuited the neurons in his brain. Paul was merely trying to help, and he expected to be comforted, not accused.
“Get up!” he heard again, a foot nudged his hip, his body slumped on the ground as if he were a drunk blocking a store front, he who could count on one hand the number of drinks he’d ever tasted.
“Please. Leave me.” He was infantile, without the ability to move body parts—feet, knees, hips. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone and give him quiet? His spirit had bolted from compassion and sadness to a terror that immobilized him.
“What are you doing here?” a different man in uniform asked in a quieter voice.
“Hurry up!” a voice yelled from beyond.
“Nothing,” Paul gasped.
He kept his eyes clenched shut, frightened as he desperately sought his private world. A safer world. Away from these things he did not understand. He was helping the man, the man who was alone and hurt. Where did the man go? The noises and lights interrupted his focus.
Paul forced his eyes open to peer toward the flashlight beam: pointed at another crumpled figure on the sidewalk. Paul barely recalled making the 911 call. Or did he? Then rising abruptly, frightened when the flashing lights and sirens disrupted the peace. A peace, only a few minutes before filled with comfort and his own prayers, surrounded by distant sea gull croons and tug boat air horns. The crumpled figure was the man who was hurt: before the sirens, lights, and yelling. Why was the man in uniform yelling and the sirens screaming while the other man didn’t stir? Paul’s eyes wandered to the deep red stains on his shirt sleeves. He rubbed one, then stared at his hand, damp with blood. Paul squeezed his eyes shut again and remained on the ground, incapable of doing anything in such pandemonium. His body ached suddenly, pain tore through his arm and his head throbbed.
“No! No!” he cried, snot dripped from his nose and mixed with the saliva from his mouth, hanging from his face before it dribbled toward the ground. Paul closed his eyes once more as he shivered, withdrawing to the strong arms that grabbed him, walked him toward the patrol car, asking questions Paul could not decipher in his terror-filled state.
“Say something!” Garbled verbal commands loudly punctuated the blur of noises, foreign to him in that moment, as if coming from extraterrestrials.
“What did you say? Why are you here?”
These statements were undecipherable to him in those moments, blank dialogue bubbles floating above cartoon characters. Why are they yelling at me? Instead, Paul blindly struck out, terrified.
“Put your hands up and move away.” A voice penetrated through the cacophony of sirens, traffic, and voices
.
Paul shook then, vibrations searching to find a route out of his body. “Please leave me alone,” he whispered, as he dropped to the ground, shrugging into a fetal ball. “I was trying. I was trying to help.” The cement was cold and the smell of old piss emanated from its cracks. His unconscious mission now was only to take up as little space as possible and pray for a miracle. To disappear like the magician in a trick from his boyhood, the one he had always wanted to see repeated again and again.
“Get up!” echoed around him.
The voices were loud and angry to Paul, as if shot from a firing line. He did nothing wrong, he wanted to yell but fear immobilized him, making him unable to obey commands.
“Please,” he whispered again, believing uniformed people would protect him.
His eyes now locked tight: if only he would awaken as if from a nightmare, sweaty and shaking but soon after comforted by his familiar bedroom. A rented room he knew was safe, where he could walk to the grocery store and to his job as an animal tech supervised by a woman who never raised her voice. Oh no, he remembered. The yells, sirens, and blinking lights short-circuited the neurons in his brain. Paul was merely trying to help, and he expected to be comforted, not accused.
“Get up!” he heard again, a foot nudged his hip, his body slumped on the ground as if he were a drunk blocking a store front, he who could count on one hand the number of drinks he’d ever tasted.
“Please. Leave me.” He was infantile, without the ability to move body parts—feet, knees, hips. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone and give him quiet? His spirit had bolted from compassion and sadness to a terror that immobilized him.
“What are you doing here?” a different man in uniform asked in a quieter voice.
“Hurry up!” a voice yelled from beyond.
“Nothing,” Paul gasped.
He kept his eyes clenched shut, frightened as he desperately sought his private world. A safer world. Away from these things he did not understand. He was helping the man, the man who was alone and hurt. Where did the man go? The noises and lights interrupted his focus.
Paul forced his eyes open to peer toward the flashlight beam: pointed at another crumpled figure on the sidewalk. Paul barely recalled making the 911 call. Or did he? Then rising abruptly, frightened when the flashing lights and sirens disrupted the peace. A peace, only a few minutes before filled with comfort and his own prayers, surrounded by distant sea gull croons and tug boat air horns. The crumpled figure was the man who was hurt: before the sirens, lights, and yelling. Why was the man in uniform yelling and the sirens screaming while the other man didn’t stir? Paul’s eyes wandered to the deep red stains on his shirt sleeves. He rubbed one, then stared at his hand, damp with blood. Paul squeezed his eyes shut again and remained on the ground, incapable of doing anything in such pandemonium. His body ached suddenly, pain tore through his arm and his head throbbed.
“No! No!” he cried, snot dripped from his nose and mixed with the saliva from his mouth, hanging from his face before it dribbled toward the ground. Paul closed his eyes once more as he shivered, withdrawing to the strong arms that grabbed him, walked him toward the patrol car, asking questions Paul could not decipher in his terror-filled state.
Book Clubs & Reading Groups Discussion Guide
From the Author
The Back Story
Shortly before the pandemic interrupted life, our community was impacted by a disturbing event. I began wondering: does good ever come from bad? I do not believe things are “meant to happen” in order for good to surface; when bad or sad things happen we grieve and it is not “for the better.” Yet, silver linings can open up into our complicated lives, allowing us to bear witness to beauty, often accompanied by kindness. Sometime after publishing my novel, Beyond the Ripples, I lazily drafted short paragraphs of its sequel, yet I was left uninspired. Instead, they lay abandoned and I would instead blog. But as I wrestled thinking about bad things and silver linings those months later, I felt ready to begin to write another book, while even then my Ripples’ characters continued to speak to me.
Why This Title
Early in the writing of this collection of stories I knew that “Grace” needed to be in the title. Neither “kindness” nor “mercy” seemed right. And adding “Humanity” seemed to be a no brainer.
Why You Want to Read It
Those unfamiliar with the Pacific Northwest, will enjoy reading this collection of stories set in the coastal, historical town of Astoria – while those familiar with the area will enjoy reading about a town and area they know. Literary fiction lovers will appreciate and enjoy how I get into my characters’ heads and hearts. Others may enjoy the quest to learn “who did what” while contemplating the power of human connection, sometimes when we don’t even notice it. Finally, during times that are so difficult for so many, this book allows us to feel emotions of both sadness and joy, while leaving us with hope.
The Back Story
Shortly before the pandemic interrupted life, our community was impacted by a disturbing event. I began wondering: does good ever come from bad? I do not believe things are “meant to happen” in order for good to surface; when bad or sad things happen we grieve and it is not “for the better.” Yet, silver linings can open up into our complicated lives, allowing us to bear witness to beauty, often accompanied by kindness. Sometime after publishing my novel, Beyond the Ripples, I lazily drafted short paragraphs of its sequel, yet I was left uninspired. Instead, they lay abandoned and I would instead blog. But as I wrestled thinking about bad things and silver linings those months later, I felt ready to begin to write another book, while even then my Ripples’ characters continued to speak to me.
Why This Title
Early in the writing of this collection of stories I knew that “Grace” needed to be in the title. Neither “kindness” nor “mercy” seemed right. And adding “Humanity” seemed to be a no brainer.
Why You Want to Read It
Those unfamiliar with the Pacific Northwest, will enjoy reading this collection of stories set in the coastal, historical town of Astoria – while those familiar with the area will enjoy reading about a town and area they know. Literary fiction lovers will appreciate and enjoy how I get into my characters’ heads and hearts. Others may enjoy the quest to learn “who did what” while contemplating the power of human connection, sometimes when we don’t even notice it. Finally, during times that are so difficult for so many, this book allows us to feel emotions of both sadness and joy, while leaving us with hope.
Other Books by Dede Montgomery
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