Three Tastes

For a change of pace and subject, here are narrative tastes you might enjoy from three published works of mine – - 

A Place of Belonging:

APoB Cover129

Stephen Banks sat sideways in his restaurant chair, one leg over the other. He had the outdoorsman’s look and smell of old leather. A semicircle of bristles had formed beneath his angular chin as he studied the Friday Atlanta Constitution’s front page. He stopped his reading for a moment, took a fork in one large, chapped hand, and stirred his grits and eggs together. His boots were mud spattered, as were the pant legs of his camo hunting clothes. Someone had brushed against his jacket, managing to pull it halfway off the chair back, and passing shoes were quietly soiling one sleeve. He glanced at his watch. Almost eleven a.m. He returned to his reading.


A Reason To Tremble:

Front Cover copy

In late fall in Georgia, in the southernmost foothills of the Appalachians, the season speaks most beautifully to those who rise early. Before the sun begins its slow climb over an eastern horizon made irregular by tall pines and gently weathered hillsides, a misty cloak hugs the earth. It has spread through the night, thickening as it filled the valleys and spilling over the hills like a carelessly thrown quilt. Within this nebulous blanket, the rhythms and melodies of the natural world lie subdued, reduced to one pure, somnolent tone.


The Blue Bicycle:


The car ground to a stop on the driveway gravel. Then a voice from the porch, high-pitched and quivering. 

“That’s Merle?”

A.J. nodded. “The fireworks probably set him off. It was like this last year.”

They swung from their seats, clicked the car doors shut. A.J. returned his bike to the garage, and they crept up the porch stairs. The fiddle lay across Merle’s lap, bow in his right hand, dangling over the rocker’s arm to the floor. He stirred, began to babble in two distinctive voices.

A.J. stooped, lifted the fiddle from the old man’s lap, eased the bow from his hand, placed both in the case, snapped it shut. “Come on,” he whispered. 


 See Bob's Web Site here


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