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If the only subjects worthy of a writer’s labor concern certain universal truths, which William Faulkner called the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself, then Marlin Barton has achieved a noble goal with his splendid second collection of stories, “Dancing by the River.”

Most of the stories center around several generations of Andersons, a family that once owned a general store in rural Alabama. There is no genealogical tree to easily identify the Andersons, nor does Barton provide any but the slightest of physical descriptions of his central characters, choosing instead to depict them by their ages and by their relationships with friends, spouses, parents, children and lovers. When he does provide clues about his characters’ appearances, Barton affords this modest luxury mostly to the supporting cast from outside the Anderson clan, such as a gypsy handyman or a mouthy young Confederate soldier.

The sparse character studies do not deprive the stories of their rich imagery, however, because Barton’s strengths lie in his subtle description of place and his pitch-perfect dialogue. For Barton, what happens to his characters in their relationships, framed by their connection to their homes, the family store, or a strip club, is far more important than any family trait passed down through the generations. The constant references throughout to area rivers, as obstacles to cross or landmarks by which to identify significant events, reflect the temporary place that each generation occupies compared to the eternity of the countryside in which the characters live.

Barton adheres to the premise that universal truths are universal precisely because they cannot be avoided by forewarning but must be learned anew by each generation. In “Another Story for Catherine,” Barton visits the theme of a doomed love affair in which a grandson enters into the same tortured relationship with an older woman that his grandfather experienced two generations before in “At the Wall in Gaillon.” That the grandson began his romance at a college night class instead of in post-World War II France does not diminish the heart’s expectation that love can triumph over adversity, nor does it soften the blow when love falls short, again.

Only two of the twelve stories in “Dancing” do not concern the Andersons but, instead, feature a narrator who hopes to keep his marriage from dissolving. “Meaning Business” does little more than provide back story for the protagonist in “Falling,” a chronicle of an absurd contest in which chickens are dropped from a low-flying plane into a crowd of contestants, with one chicken bearing a special ticket that will reward its captor with an all-expenses paid vacation along the so-called “Redneck Riviera” in Gulf Shores. “Falling” can stand alone, however, as one of Barton’s most endearing stories, with the future of a loveless marriage depending for survival on the comic plight of flightless fowl.

In his best stories, including “Beneath a Dark Window,” “Falling,” “Errands,” and “At the Wall in Gaillon,” Barton focuses on decisions made in life, or words spoken, that seemed right at the time, and he provides his characters with the perspective of time to determine whether their past actions were, indeed, well chosen. Redemption does not come often in these stories, but enlightenment always appears, even when not welcome.

Barton endeavors to remind man “of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past,” an obligation with which Faulkner sought to imbue future generations of writers. With “Dancing by the River,” Marlin Barton capably discharges his duty.

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The first four chapters of Smonk surely rank among the most grotesque, savage and compelling fiction ever written.  Using Alabama in the early 1900s as his setting, Tom Franklin has created two despicably fascinating characters, E.O. Smonk and Evavangeline, for whom violent and creative self-preservation are as natural as breathing.  These two travel along separate paths of destruction, sharing some bit players in their storylines, but otherwise remaining oblivious of each other’s existence as they move toward the day of reckoning.

Whether they are evil incarnate, as some folks believe, or avenging angels, Franklin does not make clear, because he populates the countryside with enough human and animal detritus to place their actions in proper context.  As bad as they may be, Smonk and Evavangeline are simply the best at playing a game in which survival is the only rule.

Franklin sets a frantic pace in the beginning, as the bodies and the indignities against humanity pile up like the carcasses of rabid dogs that litter the land.  Smonk simultaneously repulses and demands rapt attention, appealing not to the prurient interests of pulp fiction but to the stunned disbelief that things cannot get any worse.  Or can they?

But Smonk delivers more than just a western gore-fest.  Franklin invokes the Book of Revelations, with its demand for unquestioning adherence to the prophet’s law, as a central theme in “Smonk.”  Is the foundation on which the townspeople of Old Texas, Alabama, have constructed their twisted belief system any more fantastic, any more arbitrary, any more cruel, than the underpinnings of Judeo-Christian faith, he seems to ask without taking a side.

Franklin’s writing is tightly packed, but he does not sacrifice imagery for economy.  His physical descriptions of people and place are terse but vivid, and his attention to the details that fill up each scene are cinematic in scope.  Franklin even reveals a deft comedic touch as he relieves the tension with several minor characters, including a dandy from back east who suppresses his sinful lust with self-abuse, and his well-spoken but didactic Negro assistant.

If Quentin Tarantino ever wanted to film a western homage to his beloved Sergio Leone, director of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns like “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly,” he would do well to option “Smonk” for his screenplay.

But Smonk considerable early promise dissipates as the story hurtles toward its inevitable apocalypse in the last quarter of the book, when Franklin ties up loose ends too quickly, as if a proctor called time before his essay exam was completed.  Franklin leaves several subplots underdeveloped or unresolved, characters disappear without explanation, and the denouement, engorged with New Testament allegory, departs so far from plausibility that it renders the previous savagery void of credibility, as if this were just a well-crafted horror story.

Smonk, which excited me so much at first, ultimately left me wanting more from the author, but not from these characters.  Instead, I think I’ll seek out Franklin’s collection of short stories, “Poachers,” where his compact writing, his gift from detail, and his boundless imagination promise a greater reward.