| Author | Message | ||
     Weber_gregston (Weber_gregston) Username: Weber_gregston Registered: 03-2008 Posted From: 83.98.9.4 |
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Locktenders-House-Steven-Sherrill/dp/1400061539/ref=sr_1 _1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1218098797&sr=8-1 Also an excellent excellent book. The prose is hypnotic and it's just generally an excellent book. I urge everyone here to read all three of this guys books. The Minotaur takes a cigarette break was one of my favourites of 2006; Visits from the drowned girl was one of my favourites last year and athis is well up to the same standard. | ||
| Weber_gregston (Weber_gregston) Username: Weber_gregston Registered: 03-2008 Posted From: 83.98.9.4 |
The bomb that blew a hole in Wednesday morning and in Private Danks as he walked barefoot—barefoot despite the recent disciplinary write- up—through the desert sand, back from the commissary with a tube of anti-itch cream and a bottle of hypoallergenic shampoo, the explosion not only wreaked its upward havoc upon him but also surged through the earth’s web of tectonic capillaries, pulsed from beneath the great bodies of water so uniformly that the schools of damselfish and chubs dithering at the various coasts turned en masse, and simultaneously, toward some primordial idea of safety, the ensuing waves lapping and licking at the remnants of a pier in Pamlico Sound, off the North Carolina coast, with just enough vigor to rouse the baker’s dozen of plovers or gulls or pelicans clacking their beaks or squawking atop the creosoted pylons, the flap of wings and the shuddering that followed coinciding with a gust of salty wind that stirred the sea grass then rode the tops of the skinny pine trees inland, across the Piedmont, traveling 6,347 miles away from the dead boy in the desert, where, as if coming home, the percussive essence of that bomb climbed two flights of stairs in the middle of a sprawling apartment complex on the outskirts of Greensboro, then, without pause, rattled unit 33’s door in its jamb, and shook the interior wall imperceptibly, but with all the force necessary to jostle Private Danks’s dusty, out-of-tune banjo hanging from its peg head by a thin leather strand on a nail above his Easy-Boy recliner. The brittle strand broke. The banjo fell, the twang and clang upending the sleep of Private Danks’s girlfriend, Janice, on the other side of the shared wall. Janice bolted from the bed and ran headlong into the worst migraine of her life. |