The Piano
“Remember Hiram Sigafoos?” the judge asked Curry. “Cattle rustler, wasn’t he?” Curry said, standing in front of the judge’s desk, hat in his hands. “In lockup a couple years back.” “That’s the one. Escaped and disappeared. Sigafoos hadn’t escaped, Curry recalled. The judge had given him a furlough because his wife was sick, a point Curry had sense enough to keep to himself. “Yes, sir.” “I finally found the sonofabitch,” the judge said. Click here to read more…
Like Robert Johnson’s Blues
Amber hit the brakes. Just a traffic light blinking red in the middle of nowhere, but the Devil would be here if he was anywhere. She pulled onto the shoulder, turned off the engine, and looked around. Nothing for miles but two highways coming together and a whole bunch of those big windmill things.
She went over again what her band teacher had said. He’d spent most of the period talking about Robert Johnson, some black dude who played guitar so good people accused him of selling his soul to the Devil at a crossroads. Click here to read more…
Robert Rice 