“on sunday we slathered brioche with cultured butter, dolloped crème fraîche on daubes, and spooned a pudding of aida’s creation. the interior was so creamy it recalled the molten center of the earth. if the land of milk and honey produced no further milk, this meal proclaimed, then we would sup of the last like kings and queens.”
“his name was rambo, and he was just some nothing kid for all anybody knew, standing by the pump of a gas station at the outskirts of madison, kentucky.”
we talk to david connerley nahm, author of ancient oceans of central kentucky, about “delicate” horror, the editing process, and ernest p. worrell.
“and the boy sunk to the bottom of the sea and the slow churn of the ancient ocean turned his bones to dust and turned the dust to stone and over the silent turning of the bottom of the ocean, no light fell and his name was lost among the shards of bone and shell.”
“but dixie-phobes take heart. the southland is not just some spook house, some bigoted hellhole. hollywood gives us a bad rap. for the same unsophistication that leads to belligerence and prejudice in some can produce the finest qualities in others. not far from where the scum of the earth park their trailers, the salt of the earth tend their lawns. the old folks at home.”
