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Friday, March 4, 2011

Possibly One of the Best Passages of Prose Ever

Still planning on my "Part Two" blog post about the best evening ever with Tom Monteleone and Paul Wilson, but just haven't had time.  This morning, however, for kicks and giggles, I wanted to share a passage that just reached up and smacked me last night as I read this book for perhaps the fifth time this year.  It just hums with "awesome" and "win".

Picture if you will: The flipside of a game played by a pack of teenage hoodlums in a rusty Chrysler.  It's a solo B-side for a thing born in a cornfield, a requiem for the shambling progeny of the black and bloody earth.  Because the October Boy has his own game.  It's played with pitchforks and switchblades and fear, and its first scrimmage is set to begin on a quiet strip of two-lane that marks the midnight train to town.   For this creature with the fright mask is both trick and treat.   He comes with pockets filled with candy, and he carries a knife that carves holes in the shadows, and his race will take him from a lonely country road to an old brick church that waits dead center in the middle of the The Twilight Zone.

Dark Harvest, by Norman Partridge.  My Creative Writing class will be reading it soon.

And so should you.

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