An Appalachian Country Rag--Hobo, Tennessee



A Country Rag Hobo, Tennessee



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Historic Jobo TN  Mixed Bag Literati "What hell would have thee, Frankie?"

Joel strode from the room and slammed the teakwood door behind him.

Penelope yowled as he tripped over her in blind fury, losing his balance and crushing her bushy tail.

"Sorry, Penny." Joel calmed to scoop her off the tile into a cradle of tawny muscle meant for Frankie as he'd ridden home, winding up the mountain to find her again crouched and strung out on tears and sobs of longing.

"I just want to go home," she screamed and launched her book into the airspace toward his chest.

"Look what I found for you," he seduced, pulling a freshly-shot grouse from his knapsack.

Frankie sniffled in her glance upward. "I want it mounted."

"It's dinner," Joel growled. "Clean it."

"No-o-oo. I'm too tired." Frankie turned her back from him and curled into the wall with fists clenched to eyelids closed intently against the rest of the night and the forest closing in on her.

Dredged of patience and caring, Joel crooned that he'd boil them potatoes and cabbage from the garden instead.

Frankie wailed in an evil snivel. "I want steak au poivre. And oysters florentine. Brandy alexanders. And sushi. Peking duck. Lace tablecloths. Starched linen napkins. Take me home," she gasped, glowering at the starless gloom arrayed above the skylight.

"It's just a gig for a fortnight,"Joel reasoned, knowing he couldn't carry a tune without her.

"I hate that smelly old Virginia barn." Frankie doubled over, dry-gagging and clasping her stomach.

"It's a steal that'll take us to Falmouth for a month's sail," Joel reminded her. "They really rock out on those old ocean tales and tunes. The tips are pure gold. We'll eat well then, I promise. Just hang," he pleaded into auburn strands of waves tousled by this storm.

Frankie pursed her pale lips and sniffed to sit upright, facing the man of her dreams and her screams. "Cabbage?" she queried from a soothed quiet tracing figure eights into her spine.

"And potatoes boiled to their prime."

"In real butter?"

"With real butter."

He winked on a relieved grin. "Just get me to the barn in time."

Frankie hummed a harmonic background for his slide toward the stove.


(368 words 2125 characters)


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Historic Jobo TN  Mixt Bag Writing Craft resource references:

NYT Book Review
Internet Archive Text(&Audio) cyber-libraries
NYT Editorial Commentary
Goodreads reader/writer review/critique omnisite
Race, Class and Creative Spark
NYT "DRAFT" collaborative blog on writing
The New Yorker "The Latest" Books & Fiction
Delancey Place Archives




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Historic Jobo TN  The Personal Bubble Factory


text and graphics Jeannette Harris, January 2015. All rights reserved.







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