A Figure from the Common Lot


Virtual cover for novel A Figure from the Common Lot


















Readers, A Figure from the Common Lot is off the blog, as I’m preparing a fresh edit; next to send it out for consideration by publishers. But I’ll leave behind a sample, below.





Book One: 1870-1871

Chapter One: Cette Illusion de la Mortalité





Book Two: 1876

Chapter Two: Possente Spirto









Book Two













Chapter Two
Possente Spirto





On an oxbow

The current passes

A fallen tree, submerged

At a cross-angle, green murky-brown

Depths, hot from the sun

The surface still, gnats rise

Kingfishers, blackbirds, bank swallows

The river has right-of-way



Pastel drawing of comsumptive's suffering face









The month was August.

The steam whistle blasted a warning, for the Cookesville spur was the end of the line, and the locomotive was about to be decoupled and moved to the turntable. The platform’s exchange of humanity numbered in the dozens. And most of these―few Cookesville citizens in the habit of startling their relatives by meeting them at the depot―had just left the cars.

Porters strode, one man in front, ushering, one behind, pushing, at a single luggage cart laden with travel trunks; this went down the ramp and up the alley, making for the Columbia Hotel. The station master checked his watch. Others, noticing this, felt prompted to check their own watches. The two-faced clock that hung from an iron bracket bolted to the station house exterior pitched in, and tolled its own clanging note that rang across the platform.

A traveler, resting his back against the same wall, flinched; for a moment, his weary face became animated. He set his lips in a sour line, that of a man harried by yet another thing. He had, for ten minutes, held his portmanteau and witnessed with relief the clearing of the cars. He now dropped the bag at his feet. He withdrew his own watch, and saw that it was, as the depot clock had wound down to confirming, eleven in the morning.

The bag was not heavy, but to the traveler, it seemed so. The brim of his hat cast shadows that accentuated the hollows under his eyes. It was a quality specimen, this hat, purchased from one of dozens of specialty shops that lined Denver’s Laramie Street. The traveler had found downtown Denver to be something like an Exposition that went on for all time.

The hat bore his name, inked onto the maker’s label, affixed to the band inside the crown. He was dressed, somewhat to the detriment of the posh prosperity at which he aimed (for he was very thin), in a closely tailored suit. The traveler had known the extremity of poverty, and had always felt well with himself when his clothes were good.







Charcoal and pastel drwaing of middle-aged man feeling defeatedThe House of Everard








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