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A Southern Town Echoes Cradle to Grave

And, mirrors civilization from cradle to grave as well. These stories from the South seep storied tales from the past. Vultures and buzzards abound, their leavings foreshadow early that nasty stuff is to come, as nasty as some of the hidden behaviors of the founding fathers. Snakes weave about and follow, mocking religious hypocrisy. The constellations and the muses reflect and scare by telling truth instead of some whitewashed legend.

History reflects off Deadman Mountain, shaped by flowing, constantly moving waters, yet unmoved by man until the government gets involved. All is tied to the historical founders, the Falklands. (How transparent is that?

KKK, slavery, religion, the Jeffersons and Hemmings, it’s all here. There is the journal, and the daughter who speaks of it and notes the entries are sparse when evil was afoot. Yet, Carson Falkland sings, beautifully sings on. The Gypsy finds love with the Jew. The blackest of blacks (named Tom in case the sophomores miss it again) appears when salvation is required. The danged ghosts persist. The most evil ones are silent in the silent grave of a bat and moss covered cave, leaving no visible memories.

Upstanding “leaders” hatch a plan to improve the area by destroying Concord. Poisoning the early planners doesn’t work. Like the hallowed founding fathers, the pesky critters keep coming back.

Should you ever wonder if a short story writer can create a successful novel using individual stories, here it is – a woven novel. The commonality of location runs from and through the stories. You know you are in the same place. The plot is the ground where the story lies. That plot, soon, like the black walnut that spans the decades, is sentenced to be sunken under a dam, or is it damnation?