Excerpts

SMALL AS A MUSTARD SEED

“I ain’t afraid this time.  I ain’t some kid don’t know shit from Shinola,” my father hollered as he stood in the driveway. In the curve of his chest, pressed tight against the denim of his overalls, he clutched a black revolver. The other hand . . .

UNPUBLISHED WORK IN PROGRESS

Rose drove the rusted Plymouth across the state, the highway rolled out like a flat, gray carpet. She travelled northeast, moving toward Joliet, toward the Stateville Correctional Center where her father lived. She tapped the ring . . .