(Former Pulitzer Prize Contender) Dangling from a rope in an Appalachian cave or trembling from vertigo on a canyon ledge, wrestling a chain-scarred boulder or arguing with a wily Leprechaun, Ingram's short story characters bring to life humor, challenge, regret, and hope. After decades of procrastination, a field worker finally decides to attend his high school reunion. Another character seeks understanding of a journey into the Southern river wilds to evict its backwoods inhabitants. In contrast, some stories deal with the laughter in life, such as a frustrated student who never seems to have the correct time and an inebriated musician tackling an unfamiliar delta dish. These stories are sure to bring chuckles and tears, reflection and foresight, and you'll find yourself reading them, sharing them, again and again.

from "Reunion"
. . . The train rocked gently from side to side, the
quiet roar of the steel wheels rolling along
forgiving tracks, almost hypnotic, soothing. The
intermittent wail of the train's horn several cars
ahead brought back memories of that old trestle
where he and Sammy used to play after school.
They would lay pennies on the tracks and hide
under the weathered beams till the train passed
over. Then they would climb up and recover
their flattened treasures. . . .


from "Winesaps"
. . . The doe didn't move as we approached,
except for a slight nod at times, and Grandpa
walked slower the closer he got. He must not
have known I was behind him because he never
looked back. He just kept on walking. Then he
slowly spread his arms out by his sides, his palms
open toward the doe. . . .
"I didn't know."
The deer stared straight at him, never moving.
"Please—forgive me. I told you before. I just
didn't know." . . .
But the deer just looked back at us for a
couple of seconds, snorted mist into the cool
mountain air, and suddenly bounded off into the
woods, its lope quickly fading till there was
nothing but the distant screams of blue jays
somewhere in the treetops. . . .


from "Ripples in Silence"
. . . The gibbous moon, only half risen over the
Appalachians, cast its soft light onto the rolling
tips of distant pines. The water lay still, the
mirror image, sharp and clear, broken only by
the occasional jump of a hungry young bass
leaping for the twinkling morsels above. . . .
Suddenly, shots rang out, and the wheelhouse
window burst into fragments. I ducked below the
tiny wall as lead whacked against both sides of
the steamer, and the boat swerved to the right
with an unattended wheel. I reached up and hit
all-stop, and we floated backwards toward the
left bank and ground to a halt in the shallows. At
least we weren't drifting. Finally, I got up the
nerve to peek out the door. Chuck lay flat on
deck, smiling curiously at me. . . .


from "Is That Clock Right?"
. . . Then I slowly gaze up toward the culprit of
this predicament. The clock. I fantasize tying its
lying little hands with its own ugly cord and
drowning it face-first in that last shoe-deep
puddle. But this clock's not the only one. It seems
that every clock on campus is conspiring to make
me late.
Some days, it takes me only a couple of
minutes from one class to another, according to
the arrival clock. Some days, fifteen. That's when
I'm late. Then some days, I get there before I
even leave.
Realizing that something has to be done, I
search the campus for our resident clock
watcher, Hans Turner. . . .



Also available as audiobook.    

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