On sale for this week only .99!!!
of New Hampshire, having studied with poets Charles Simic and Mekeel
McBride. He has published in poetry
journals, anthologies, and magazines–most notably in Ellery Queen. Currently he has six published novels, two
short stories and is included in an anthology.
teaching ELA for 22 years he decided to put his master’s degree to work and is
now a high school counselor. In
addition, he is an avid marathoner, fly-fisherman, and outdoorsman. He lives just outside Houston, Texas with his
wife Valerie, two dogs and a cantankerous cat.
~ Newsletter ~Twitter~ Goodreads ~
Find all of Jim Hemlin’s Books Here
Tim’s Top-Ten All Around Favorite Things:
1. Writing stories and poems
2. The Sun Also Rises
4. Fish and Chips
6. The Boston Red Sox
8. Midnight in Paris
9. Bob Dylan
10. Sunday, sweet Sunday
If Wishes Were Horses
I bellied up to a stainless-steel table where a large tub of slaughtered wild doves was waiting. One of our clients had gone on a hunting spree earlier this fall and now wanted to serve the birds as an appetizer. But damn, Claudia must be pissed. Carving out a dove’s barely quarter-sized breast was something Mattie could’ve done. The game meat would be tasty sautéed in cilantro butter with a flambé of tequila, and served on a small toast with a touch of sun-dried tomato sauce. Dealing with them now, however, was grunt work.
After the first couple of dozen, I began to change my tune. Perhaps mindless activity was beneficial at this point. Pull skin. Slice one little breast, flip body, then slice the other. Discard carcass. And thus I bone the bird of peace.
Pull, slice, flip, slice, discard. So what did I have? Sleepless nights. Pull, slice, flip. A hothead with a missing horse that I had located. Slice, discard, pull. A tight-mouthed businessman in Chip Gunn and the enigmatic Dover Hill, whose name gave me the willies. Slice, flip, slice. A headstrong girl with adolescent worries. Discard, pull, slice. Her grandfather who knew more than he was saying, perhaps because he was afraid to say too much. Flip, slice, discard. True Grit still missing and Cecil Brenner most likely threatening all kinds of military acts against Texas, or me. Pull, slice, flip. The friendly Lieutenant Gardner unconvinced I was simply an innocent mourner. Slice, discard, pull. And a hungry prosecutor aching to carry an indictment all the way to the lethal-injection chamber in Huntsville. Slice, flip, slice. Toss in a side order of Susan and Professor Winford. Slice, slice, slice. And for dessert, a married Keely Cohen. Discard. ~ Neil Marshall
A Whisper of Rage
I did the only thing I could think of: I ran after him myself. Questions came to me. Why weren’t there any uniformed cops here as backup? Did those two old men leaden with fat and iron think the capture was going to be this easy?
I knew the area and took off down Service Street, hooked a right at the cash-and-carry place. Linda had taken the direct path, but for a big guy Ramirez was fast, too fast for her to come close.
I expected to hear gunshots. There were none. All of them were out of sight. I was running parallel to Airline Drive, thinking that old José would duck into one of the neighborhoods, when I asked myself what I was going to do if I did catch up to him. I was fast, had great stamina, and was totally unarmed. Great, I thought, and slowed. I pictured the headlines: IDIOT JOGGER SLAIN WHILE CHASING EX-CON—OUTRAN COPS AND INVESTIGATORS TO BE THERE FIRST—NEVER SUSPECTED PROTECTION WAS AN ISSUE. The son of a bitch tried to kill me once. What better to do than give him a second chance? –Neil Marshall