Book Review by: Sharon Powers. If you would like to see this review with all the wonderful images that go with it, please stop by my blog at: http://sharonsloveofbooks.blogspot.com/__________________________________________ It was reported that on, "Jan. 18, 1863, troops from the 64th Nor...
It was even grander than he had supposed, four stories high with two cupolas rising even higher. He’d heard the hotel’s interior was spartan since becoming part of a prison camp, but it was still a magnificent building the Vaterland’s officers were allowed to occupy. One of them stood on the hote...
To young people raised on the Internet, it would be unimaginable. A boy from Sylva had been killed in Vietnam, another badly injured, but the war never felt within our world. Neither did the antiwar movement in Berkeley, the civil rights protests spilling into violence in Louisville and New York,...
Harris sat in the backseat, using a wool overcoat and a flask of whiskey to keep himself warm. Sleet had fallen the day before, and though now only drizzle smudged the windshield, scabs of ice lingered on bridges and curves where cliff hangs shaded the blacktop. Pemberton drove cautiously, stayin...
What had been a trusty sluff job was now as onerous as swinging a Kaiser blade or shoveling out ditches. As soon as he’d hauled the buckets back to the cage truck it was time to go again. He asked Vickery if someone could spell him and the bull guard smiled and said that Sinkler could always stra...
If it had still been snowing and his tracks were being covered up, he’d have turned back. People had gotten lost in this park. Children wandered off from family picnics, hikers strayed off trails. Sometimes it took days to find them. But today the sun was out, the sky deep and blue. No more snow ...
Newell took away his plate and coffee cup, Pastor Boone lingered at the table and watched the thick flakes fall. The garden angel’s wings were submerged, the redbud’s dark branches damasked white. Be grateful it’s not stinging sleet, Parson Boone told himself as Mrs. Newell returned to the rector...
Sepia and mote drift, her absence all luster now gone. The sadness of a bowl left on a counter, a pair of reading glasses beside a chair. Something of that as I enter Gerald’s house. But Gerald will return. The EKG fine, the overnight stay just precaution. I didn’t lock up the house, Gerald mumbl...
Since accepting his employ with the English Folk Dance and Ballad Society, that was how Wilson thought of himself and, in truth, a rather daring servant. He was no university don mumbling Gradgrindian facts facts facts in a lecture hall’s chalky air, but a man venturing among the new world’s Cali...