At last, the showers were giving way to the flowers. At the precipice between April and May, Ronnie Whitfill was perched, and the lure of adulthood flowered. The farm boy had a smart phone, a Twitter account, and a restlessness that came every spring but never more thunderous than in this, his senior year of …
Tag: guitar
Where Might the Suspects Be?
Paralysis. Groping for some coherence. Doing menial chores just as a substitute for creativity, in the desperate hope that something will arise, something out of thin air or gray matter. Pairing socks. Washing dishes. Paying bills. Biding time till something, anything, happens along. He picked up his guitar, started strumming, but he wasn’t of a …
Scuppernongs and Muscadines, Part One
My daddy used to say / You gotta be a man / You gotta pull your weight / You gotta work the land / But every time I tried and failed / He turned away from me / By the time I was a man / It was too late for him to see. …
Still Not Carolina in My Mind
I don’t travel much any more, and I was a bit surprised at how much I enjoyed my recent nine-day sojourn through ten states. What I expected was that I’d have a wonderful time on the way out to the westernmost terminus, Gainesville, then get antsy and impatient on the way home. What surprised me …
If the Good Lord’s Willing, Part Two
This is the second installment of a short story derived loosely from a song I wrote. Red Hawthorn’s relationship with his won was not the best, but his former wife was, quite possibly, the worst. She thankfully wasn’t home, which he knew because, after he pulled in the driveway, and waited five minutes or …
If the Good Lord’s Willing, Part One
Here’s the beginning of another short story. There wasn’t anything wrong with Red Hawthorn that a couple eggs couldn’t fix, or, at the very least, help. He got up Friday morning the same way he got up most mornings, which was stooped over and hurting. Coffee got his juices flowing, but thankfully, a blood-pressure …
Nightrider's Lament 