Allan Harbour, artist in oils.
When nothing happened, Vernie began to fear the worst. Anjean had been murdered and no one had identified her body. She’d been sent to the medical school in Morgantown; the Adult Service Work having checked the box, “anatomical gift”.
Vernie hadn’t looked in the coffin because she’d got a good look at him when he was born.
He was lucky the doctors had been able to save his arm. He was lucky to be alive.
The woman in my mind just now? That was my mother. Resurrection driven, gliding in and out as easily as a paschal moon, hungry for a feast.
I ran into the church and had never been met with a more peaceful atmosphere in my life. None of the foulness that I’d had a whiff of this afternoon could ever enter here.
Shannon knows about boys, smokes cigarettes and pot, uses fake I.D.’s to get into college bars, and once spray painted the window of a furniture store.
“Appalachian crafts are a myth; he was buying a porch quilt.”
“Arabella Raine, come to Daddy and see this tree. It’s sprouting Elvis instead of fruit!”