Excerpts
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| First Novel: The Slate Hill Covenant The Sequel: Ellabeth The Oldest Coming Soon: Betty Rae and Farm Hand |
The Slate Hill Covenant Excerpt:
She would have told the old man just how much he reminded her of her father, but she knew the delicate
ego she was dealing with. “Ya know, Bill, my Daddy said I was, like, the prettiest thing he’d ever laid his eyes
on. He’d tell me everyday. He said his self that I melted his heart like a block of cheese, which is much more
difficult than ice. That’s what he claims! He said I had blazin’ red hair and a pink face like the under belly of a
pig!”
Bill didn’t respond.
Nowadays, in June’s gorgeous green eyes, her daddy was just a momentary irritant, complaining about her
mounting weight and her lousy child-rearing, and giving lectures of family services coming to take the hold
damned bunch of her children away and placing them with less than perfect foster parents, and the ultimate
emotional effect it would have on her, blah, blah, blah. June deemed that she would never be that lucky.
June knew that these days you would have to have placed your children in cages for extensive periods of time,
at least until they are the weight equivalent to infants and have grown great greasy bed sores, or maybe if they
found a kid dead, locked for years in an old moldy keepsake chest—would the social workers finally decide to
come to possess your children.
She would have told the old man just how much he reminded her of her father, but she knew the delicate
ego she was dealing with. “Ya know, Bill, my Daddy said I was, like, the prettiest thing he’d ever laid his eyes
on. He’d tell me everyday. He said his self that I melted his heart like a block of cheese, which is much more
difficult than ice. That’s what he claims! He said I had blazin’ red hair and a pink face like the under belly of a
pig!”
Bill didn’t respond.
Nowadays, in June’s gorgeous green eyes, her daddy was just a momentary irritant, complaining about her
mounting weight and her lousy child-rearing, and giving lectures of family services coming to take the hold
damned bunch of her children away and placing them with less than perfect foster parents, and the ultimate
emotional effect it would have on her, blah, blah, blah. June deemed that she would never be that lucky.
June knew that these days you would have to have placed your children in cages for extensive periods of time,
at least until they are the weight equivalent to infants and have grown great greasy bed sores, or maybe if they
found a kid dead, locked for years in an old moldy keepsake chest—would the social workers finally decide to
come to possess your children.