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http://tinyurl.com/y9k9nwq8
Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Precipice Press
ISBN-10: B06XTY4LCT
Type: Fiction
Pages: 94
Copyright: March 2017
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
The bulk of the collection is eight short stories that are set in yesteryear. The compilation is filled out with four entertaining fantasy pieces and three poems.
THE WAY IT WAS: Short Stories and Tall Tales is a mixed bag, consisting of four parts. The focus is on eight stories that are throwbacks to a bygone era, when life in America was simpler. Computers were at least a decade or two away, and cell phones and iPads were a gleam in a futurist’s eye, if that. Yet these reflections are timely not only in their exploration of emotions common to young people trying to find their way in life, but in their universality. Loneliness is a pervasive theme, and nostalgia plays a big role. The storyteller’s imagination runs wild in four accounts of events that stretch the boundaries of verisimilitude. These tales about fantastic people and events surely aren’t plausible – or are they? The reader must judge for hermself (this author’s invention of a single, genderless pronoun). The last section comprises whimsical ruminations, in verse, about the most basic of human experiences.
Excerpt
Britt’s trance, as he heard the din of the family’s voices, was broken by a sharp, foreign voice, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Get down! Get down!” A crack much like the rifle shots that had killed the steer and the hog, but not as loud, followed the shouted command. Britt looked up in time to see a young man with long blond hair pointing a pistol at two policemen peeking from their spots behind a squad car in the middle of the small parking lot that lay on the east side of the bank.
Britt saw a pudgy, gray-haired woman wearing white stockings and beige heels, sprawled on the grass at the edge of the parking lot. A new, dark green Volvo was parked to her right, beyond the police car. The squad car, which had driven up without its siren blaring, was forty or so feet from the rental car where Britt’s mother and wife had been waiting. But no one was visible in the car.
He stood paralyzed as he young gunman, clutching a canvas bag in his left hand, ran in the direction of the driveway feeding into the parking lot, where a faded sub-compact car sat, the scruffy-bearded driver revving the engine. The gunman looked back and fired several more shots at the policemen as he ran. He leaped through the open door on the passenger side, and the car squealed away in a mixed cloud of blue exhaust smoke and black smoke from peeled tires.
Britt whirled at the sound of pounding footsteps, and saw the bank security guard running from the bank to the scene. He yelled at the policemen that he would tend to the woman on the grass. The cops jumped in the squad car and tore after the bandits, the newer tires squealing but leaving no smoke. Both cars hurtled down the boulevard past Britt, the squad’s siren now screaming.
For a second, Britt watched as the cars disappeared down the hill, then ran toward his rental car. He heard another siren, growing louder, and saw an ambulance pull into the driveway and up to the Volvo. Two attendants jumped out and hauled a stretcher to the woman, but one hastened back to the ambulance. He returned and placed an oxygen mask over the woman’s face. Britt saw a dark stain on the woman’s powder-blue dress at the lower abdomen.
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I have two books of short stories published and am about to publish another. They haven't sold, paperbacks really don't anymore. But that is perhaps because I don't do enough marketing and all those stories are available here to read free.
Ron