Burning Bright: Stories

Burning Bright: Stories

Ron Rash

Language: English

Pages: 224

ISBN: 0061804126

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


“A gorgeous, brutal writer.”
—Richard Price, New York Times bestselling author of Lush Life and Clockers

 

In Burning Bright, Pen/Faulkner finalist and New York Times bestselling author of Serena, Ron Rash, captures the eerie beauty and stark violence of Appalachia through the lives of  unforgettable characters. With this masterful collection of stories that span the Civil War to the present day, Rash, a supremely talented writer who “recalls both John Steinbeck and Cormac McCarthy” (The New Yorker), solidifies his reputation as a major contemporary American literary artist.

A Meaningful Life (New York Review Books Classics)

Too Brief a Treat: The Letters of Truman Capote

Mister Paradise: And Other One-Act Plays (Penguin Modern Classics)

Saint Maybe

The Assassination Bureau, Ltd. (Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

show up any minute. “That and keep your mouth shut about it. I’ve not told another person about this and I want it to stay that way.” Wait is what we do for two weeks, because that first night I look up from my yard the moon’s all skinny and looks to be no more than something you might hang a coat on. Every night I watch the moon filling itself up like a big bowl, scooting the shadows out in the field back closer to the trees. Momma’s back home and doing good, back to where she’s looking more to

the woods,” Jared said. “I didn’t know you could find rings in the woods,” his mother said dreamily. “But isn’t it wonderful that you can.” “That diamond can’t be real, can it?” his father asked. His mother stepped close to the lamp. She cupped her hand and slowly rocked it back and forth, watching the different colors flash inside the stone. “It might be,” his mother said. “Can I have it back?” Jared asked. “Not until we find out if it’s real, son,” his father said. His father took the

tagged. “That .410 may be what I’m looking for,” the sheriff said. “Who brought it in?” “Danny.” Parson handed the gun to the lawman without saying anything else. Hawkins held the shotgun and studied the stock a moment. “My eyes ain’t what they used to be, Parson, but I’d say them initials carved in it are SJ, not DP.” “That gun Steve Jackson’s?” “Yes, sir,” the sheriff replied, laying the shotgun on the counter. “Danny took it out of Steve’s truck yesterday. At least that’s what Steve

anyone in Goshen Cove to steal, especially Hartley, the poorest of them all. Besides, who would take only two or three eggs when there were two dozen more to be had. The bantam’s eggs at that, which were smaller than the ones under the Rhode Island Reds and leghorns. From the barn, Jacob heard the Guernsey lowing insistently. He knew she already waited beside the milk stool. As Jacob came out of the henhouse he saw the Hartleys coming down the skid trail. They made the two-mile trek to Boone

Half full. “What you taking our kerosene for?” Martha asked. Parson didn’t reply. He left the trailer and trudged back through the snow, the can heavy and awkward, his breath quick white heaves. Not so different from those mornings he’d carried a gallon pail of warm milk from barn to house. Even as a child he’d wanted to leave this place. Never loved it the way Ray had. Inoculated. Parson set the can on the lowered tailgate and perched himself on it as well. He took the lighter and cigarettes

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