Here is a story ― or rather two stories conjoined ― about the symbiosis of imagination and fact; about the nostalgic romance of the railroad and its much more somber reality.

A Depression Era southern town suffers a series of inexplicable tragedies in the carnage of train wrecks, human frailty and a darkly wondrous season where nature seems intent on breaking all of its own rules. Against this backdrop, a vast panoply of characters ― a womanizing mayor, the abused wife of a sullen locomotive engineer, an honest but compromised police chief, a minister that seems to levitate, a dying junk dealer, a Black preacher caught between two worlds, a brutal company guard, a dwarf railroad executive and master manipulator, and a group of church ladies prone to gossip ― seek to comprehend and manipulate events beyond their control.

Seventy years later, in Southern California, these stories are interwoven into the social trials of Taylor Bedskirt ― a solitary widower with an obsession for trains ― who falls desperately under the spell of an aggressive and careworn waitress, earns cautious acclaim from like-minded enthusiasts, and attempts to ward off a sister intent upon giving him a "normal" life.  What ensues is a trenchant and often humorous exploration of faith and cynicism and of the fictions we create and how we come to believe them.

 

Taylor Bedskirt steps out of the shuttle into a summer that sucks the moisture from his very bones. He imagines crackling, shriveling, decomposing into the shrapnel of his former self, melting like frozen yogurt into the asphalt. Prominent Rorschach pools of sweat define his underarms, beads of valley heat shimmer like mercury on his forehead, his eyelids, in the shadow of his nose. He trundles ― Taylor is no runner ― toward the glass doors, enters the lobby and is momentarily on the divide between the dark and light sides of the moon, at once freezing and boiling. He removes the damp straw hat from his vulnerable pate, takes a breath of half-body relief, and proceeds to the folding table next to the sign that reads, in simple, portable white letters, “Welcome Members STEAM & TRACTION HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF AMERICA, SIERRA REGIONAL CHAPTER.”    Read all of Chapter 1

 

His Honor, Socrates Caldawalder Phipps-Rouge ― P-R to nearly everyone ― buffs the fender mirror with his monogrammed hanky, adjusts for angle, steps back inside the mud-brown, thirty-one Willys-Knight, like Walter Prezhki, its owner, the last of its breed and grudgingly out of its element.

“A night so crisp you can almost taste the moonbeams,” P-R exclaims. He eases onto the right side of the seat, snuggles up in his long, wool nightrider’s coat, puffs the generous collar high up on chapped cheeks. “You an aficionado of weather?...Walter?”

“Whether what?” Prezhki answers flatly.

“Weather! The many moods of fickle nature. Pressing us to the extremes of our endurance, challenging our intelligence to make-do. Weather. Climate. Meteorological perversity.” He uses his sleeve to wipe away the condensation on his window, offering a fading view of the mirror.

“Not something I devote too much time too, other than figuring out what to wear before I leave the house. Not really up to me, is it?”   Read all of Chapter 1

 

J. David Robbins is a retired educator who has long enjoyed American history, writing and trains. He lives with his wife in Los Angeles, not far from Tayor Bedskirt’s fictional Pasadena abode.

 

Your comments and reviews are welcome. Contact the author at-

 

“Loved the book!!! I became totally involved; the language was rich and elaborate; the dialogue was laughoutloud funny at times; The final ‘gotcha’ was a complete surprise and it had the effect of uniting all the parts like a computer graphics special effect --BRAVO!!! I have to read it again because there are still some treasures layered in that I know I haven't discovered - a literary tiramisu.” - Pat Daniels, Educator

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cover by Adam Robbins - photo by Courtnay Robbins Bragagnolo - website by Mike Robbins