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Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Fresh Ink Group
ISBN-10: 1947867393
Type: Fiction
Pages: 172
Copyright: Nov. 5 2018
ISBN-13: 9781947867390
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
A short story collection containing 19 tales. Humor, historical fiction, coming of age, thriller, horror, and more.
If you ever find yourself on the Strange Hwy—don’t turn around. Don’t panic. Just. Keep. Going. You never know what you’ll find.
You’ll see magic at the fingertips of an autistic young man,
•A teen girl’s afternoon, lifetime of loss.
•A winged man, an angel? Demon—?
•Mother’s recognition, peace to daughter.
•Danny’s death, stifled secrets.
•Black man’s music, guitar transforms boy.
•Dead brother, open confession.
•First love, supernatural?—family becomes whole!
You can exit the Strange Hwy, and come back any time you want.
See, now you know the way in, don’t be a stranger.
Excerpt
In the summer of 1959, the summer before the start of my ninth-grade year, I, Madeline Penny, killed my father. Not directly, mind you. But sometimes even indirectly makes a person just as guilty as if she’d pulled the trigger herself.
* * *
I heard them talking in their backyard, the man and the girl—his daughter, perhaps? Their language resembled gibberish, certainly nothing I could grab hold of and uncover any specific meaning behind the sound. They’d only just moved into the house next to ours the day before.
My father caught me listening, straining to hear from our side of the fence. “They’re Russians,” he said, stepping out onto the patio, his after-work martini in hand. “And boy is the brass at the Yard in a real tizzy!”
The Yard meant the Connor-Wells Ship Yard, where my father worked. Dad didn’t build the ships; he made sure they got built the way Uncle Sam wanted them built.
“Why are they here?” I asked, dropping onto the lawn chair opposite the one my father claimed.
His shoulders twitched that uptight shrug he resorted to whenever he didn’t know the answer to a question that rang simple.
“I heard piano over there,” I said, sliding closer to him, hoping for a sip from that martini. “Really good piano—the kind like that man played at the New Year’s dance.”
“Jazz,” my father sighed, handing over the nearly empty glass. “Don’t let your mother smell that on your breath.”
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