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He pulled back the hood of his sariff and stole a glance at the sun, its violent radiation pouring
down from the cloudless sky. The sun gleamed off his shaven head, and he immediately felt his skin
heat violently and quickly. His skin was dark brown and leathery, stretched taut across his
features. His jaw worked in a rhythmic pulse, chewing the plug of spinypulp that
kept his mouth moist.
The man reached down and pinched the thumbnail of his left hand. A dark drop appeared from
beneath the nail, suspended in time. He tilted back his head and poised the thumb over his right eye,
letting the heavy drop fall. He did the same to his left eye, then blinked twice and opened his eyes
wide. They were coated with a dark film, protection from the harsh sun.
- Excerpt from "Carving"
The thin blade whispered across the grain. A curl of wood coiled slowly and dropped to the planks of the
porch, littered with shavings and scraps of sawdust. The old man paused, the block of hickory in his left,
the pocketknife in his right. He looked up from his work and narrowed his wrinkled eyes at the horizon, at
the setting sun. Where the sun dipped down, the edge of sky had turned a deep, dusky purple.
He watched a blue jay dart down from over the rooftop and alight on the tree in front of his house.
The jay, his only companion on the farm this evening, cocked its head and examined him with one eye. Beyond
the tree and the bird was a thin dirt road, unmarked on most county maps. Behind the house was the
forty-odd acres of farmland and forest handed down from his father. As the sun set and the jay cocked his
head, the land was as quiet and still as it ever could be.
Jeb sighed and turned his attention back to the piece of wood in his hand.
It was just beginning to take shape.
- Excerpt from "Mary's Box"
Mary wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked down to see the slick shiny redness across her
first two knuckles.
She reached into the purse sitting on the seat beside her, fumbling for something to wipe her nose.
As she did, her hand brushed against cold metal. She looked down to see the nickel-plated .38 revolver
nestled in her bag, like a rattlesnake coiled in a shallow pit. She carefully moved it to one side using
only her thumb and forefinger, and found the crumpled pack of tissues just as a ripe bead of blood dropped
to the leather seat. She pulled out three tissues in a wad and pushed them up against her nose.
Her head was filled with white pain, and she counted down, waiting for it to subside.
"Twenty, nineteen, eighteen..."
The excerpts from these stories are Copyright Derek James and
are reprinted here with permission.
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