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Speaker 1: When he was two years old. The boy was dropped

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off at the donation door at the Salvation Army second

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hand store in Tunica, wearing nothing but a sagging diaper.

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A Planet of the Apes backpack stuffed with more diapers

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and some shirts and mismatched socks. Little green Army men

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was dropped on the ground next to him. Then a

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hungover woman banged a scabbed fist on the metal door,

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and a hungover man blew the car horn, and she

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ran abroun and got in as the child watched with

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a docile expression out of the car window. The man

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called out some sort of farewell to the child that

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was lost in the offbeat jug of the engine, and

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then the foul running Cadillac rattled out of the gravel

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parking lot, leaving the in the dust cloud of abandonment.

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The door opened and two women in matching red Salvation

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Army T shirts stared down at the boy. Then they

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looked into the parking lot at the still lingering cloud

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out into the gray morning the sky, and they glassd

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at each other, and then one said, I guess we're

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going to have to hang a sign next to the

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one that says no mattresses, that says, no young'uns. The

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other woman lifted the boy and held him up beneath

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his arms, as if to make certain that he was

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made of actual flesh and bone, and when she was satisfied,

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she hugged the child close and rubbed her hand across

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the back of his head. She said, I pity those

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who have to live behind me in this weary and

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heartless world. The police were called, and while they waited,

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the women washed the boy in the bathroom sink with

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paper towels and hands so filthy feet and filthy hands,

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and the diaper was two changes past due. After they

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had wiped him clean and filled the trash can with

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dirty paper towels, the boy stood naked and fresh on

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the smooth concrete floor of the bathroom, and they admired

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his innocence and beauty. He was then dressed in a

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new diaper and a spider man's shirt taken from the

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rack and the kid's section. The boy did not cry

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and did not talk, but instead satisfied between the women

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on a tweed sofa marked fifteen dollars, as if he

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had already decided that this was his new home and

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that he was better off. He was better off, but

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this was the beginning of a childhood spent in the

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company of strangers. The next ten years saw him move

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from one Delta town to the next, four foster homes

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and two group homes, five different schools, a handful of caseworkers,

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teachers whose names he could not remember, and then stopped

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trying to remember because he knew he would not be

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in their classrooms for long. The steady and certain build

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of restlessness and anxiety in this child who was certain

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neither where he had come from nor where he was going.

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When he was twelve years old, the assistant director of

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the group home told him to gather his things again.

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He sat on the bench seat of a white van

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with a home loco on the side, and he watched

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the fields of soybeans and corn stalks with sullen eyes

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as he was driven from the sleepy brick street town

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of Greenwood to his fifth foster home, moving northwest and

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closer to the Great River, to the fringes of Clarksdale,

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the once bustling Delta hub of trade and commerce that

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now wore the family faded expressions of days gone by.

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His eyes changed when the van pulled into a dirt

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driveway that led to a two story home, a white

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antebellum with a port stretching across the front on the

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bottom and top floors, flaking paint on the sun's side,

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and vines hanging in baskets along the porch with their

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twisted and green tails swaying in the wind. A woman

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sat in a rocker, and she rose to meet them.

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She wore work gloves, and she pulled them off and

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tossed them on the ground as she approached the van,

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as if readying herself for whatever may climb out. She

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took him to his upstairs room and opened the dresser

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drawers to show him where he could put his things,

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and he told her there was no use. I won't

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be here long enough to mess up the covers on

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the bed. Sure you will, she answered, Now I won't,

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he said, a twelve year old certain of the workings

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of the world. Are you going to run away? I

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don't know, are you? Because unless you run away, this

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is where you live. Now. Yeah, so you think so,

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I know, she said. You don't know nothing, he said,

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and he walked out of the bedroom and down the

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stairs out into the backyard. She stood at the window

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and watched him between the slits and the curtains. He

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did not stop in the backyard, but crossed it and

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walked out onto the dirt road that ran on and

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on between the rows of cotton. The sun high and

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a short shadow followed him, and she did not chase.

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She stood in the window and watched until he was

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nearly out of sight. She was one step toward the

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door to run after him when he stopped, a tiny

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figure in the distance. He stopped and stayed in the

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same spot for several more minutes, and she could not

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know that he was talking to himself, telling himself, I

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don't want to do this no more. I don't know

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why I can't have somebody. But the space between them,

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she could not have noticed that he looked back at

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the big house and said that that place right there

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don't want me neither, and that woman can't catch me.

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I'm going to take off running and she won't never

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catch me, won't nobody. I don't want to do this

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shit no more. She could not have heard him or

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seen him with any detail, but she waited, only could

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see that he had stopped. She whispered a prayer without

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moving her lips, as if even the slightest flutter would

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spook the boy and send him fleeing on furious and

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reckless feet. And he stood still, talking to himself. She

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stood still, whispering a quiet and motionless prayer. And then

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from the distant sky, a hawk flew toward the boy.

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It flew low, and its wings were spread wide, and

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when it reached the vicinity of the boy, it swooped,

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seemed to hold there out in front of him, begging

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the boy to admire its eloquence, begging the boy to

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notice something other than himself in his troubles, begging the

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boy to think of something other than running from that woman.

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The hawk rose and fell again, and the boy saw it,

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and his eyes followed the hawk as it turned earned

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long and graceful curves and the blue, white sky, and

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from the window Marianne's by the hawk, and she shifted

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her eyes from the sky to the land, waiting to

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see what the boy would do. The breast she had

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been holding was let go when the hawk turned toward

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the house, and the boy followed. All right, I didn't

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want to ruin that by giving you a preface to

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what this was. What I just read was the prologue

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from a book called The Fighter, written by Michael Ferris Smith.

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I read this with permission from the author. I thought

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about reading the first two or three chapters of the book,

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but I don't know. I'm going to share my heart

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with you here. I envy this man's way with words

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and prose, and the way he writes and the way

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he describes scenes and emotions. It is so to the

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point in a way, so beautiful that I'm just drawing

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to this type of writing. You can go back and

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listen to it and think about it in those terms.

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Listen to the way that he writes this. It is

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really fantastic. But anyway, I was started out doing these

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fiction Fridays, and I got busy at work and the

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fridays didn't work out. I'm in here early this morning

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just sometimes I come in and just pull up chapters

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and books that I love, and I reread the chapter.

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I remember them. Might be chapter forty five of a

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novel I read ten years ago. I just remember them.

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I have them all on Kindle, and I'll just pull

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them up on my computer screen and just read them

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because I just love the written word. It's just it's

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hard to describe. But and when it's on my phone

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going on, when it's good, it is just so good.

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It's so good to read. You can just picture everything

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in your mind. You can almost feel what the characters

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are feeling. So I thought i'd share that with y'all

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this morning. This is Monday morning, it's about six am.

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I need to get to work, but you know, I'm

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kind of addicted to reading this stuff and sharing it

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on my podcast, so I hope you all enjoyed that.

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The name of the book again is The Fighter. The

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author is Michael Ferris Smith. I'll put his name in

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the name of the book in the description. If you

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like good literature, if you like good fiction, you will

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love this book and anything this author has written. I'm

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going to be doing more short stories and chapters from

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books from really best selling authors. I have found that

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if I just send them an email and say, hey,

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I have a podcast I like to read audio style

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books from authors now and then they always say yes.

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It's amazing. I just figured if I did that they

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would say no. But every one of them that I've

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sent an email to has said yes. So I've got

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this author, I've got another one. I' to read a

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short story from sometime in the next couple of weeks

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when I get a minute, and I've got some guys

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who some men who have publishing deals. They're actually writing

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collections of short stories or novels at the moment, you know,

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I'm working on Steve Lilly novels. I hope to have

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those out by the summer, at least a couple of them.

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I wish I could talk to these guys and say,

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how do you know, just talk writing. I love to

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write stories. I like good stories. Anyway, I'm just blabbering.

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I don't know what I'm talking about. But anyway, this

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particular book was made into a film. Michael Ferris Smith.

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I believe he has two novels that have been turned

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into films. One is Desperation Road. The other is this one,

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The Fighter. But the title of the film is not

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The Fighter. It's called Rumble through the Dark. You can

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find it on a streaming service service. The cinematography and

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Rumble through the Dark is fantastic. It is shot in

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the Mississippi Delta, and you really get a good sense

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of what this area looks like. It is flat, it

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is basically featureless land, you could juxtapose it between the

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Delta and the Mississippi south of Memphis to some huge

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mountain range in Alberta, Canada, and you'd go, well, God,

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that's ugly. But to people who live here, it's beautiful

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and we love it and we love this area. And

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so you get a good idea with the cinematography what

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the landscape looks like. And I think the actors did

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a pretty good job in it of displaying and depicting

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a little bit how you know, the underlife here is

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in north and central and South Mississippi and the Delta.

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But Okay, I've been talking five minutes about this and

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I haven't really said a thing. But check out the book,

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check out the movie. I'm gonna try to keep crying

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these podcasts out, even if they're short for the next

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foreseeable future. I hope you guys are enjoying it. But

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until the next one, I appreciate you, and we'll see

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you see you then. Thanks