Enjoy the latest tomes written by Panthers

Lynn Bonasia

Lynn Kiele Bonasia, alumna of our MFA in English program, just published her second novel, Summer Shift. Publishers Weekly says, “Bonasia once again mines her Cape Cod upbringing with a cast of coastal small town characters” and “delivers a delightful story…of love and redemption.” Lynn’s publisher shared with us the following excerpt:

At the end of Chapter Four, 44-year-old Mary Hopkins is reeling from the death of an employee, a young waitress who, unbeknownst to Mary, had had a child. Add to this, a mysterious visit from a long lost love earlier in the day. Now, she’s about to learn her secret crush from last year has a mystery girlfriend of his own.

“Mary woke at her desk with a crick in her neck and the mud taste of tobacco in her mouth. How many had she smoked? The room was dark. Her throat was raw. There were still sounds coming from downstairs, kitchen sounds that comforted her, reminding her of her own kitchen growing up, and of her mother and grandmother, Lovey’s sister, working side by side preparing the family meals. Fleeting visions of her youth were quickly replaced with the harsh reality that there was one little girl in this town who’d never have memories like that. Her mother was dead. And then Mary remembered the visitor. She felt for the hundred-dollar bill in her pocket, just to see whether she’d dreamt the whole thing. She reached in and pulled it out. Had Dan Bassett really come by the restaurant? She flattened the bill with her palm. What else could the “M” and the sun drawing mean? And there was the phone number. What if she called right now? But she couldn’t call now. It was the middle of the night. And even if it weren’t so late, why would she want to bother with him now, after all these years? As far as she was concerned, he was as dead to her as Robbie.

The noises downstairs subsided. From the window Mary saw the gravel by the take-out window fall into darkness. Someone had switched off the light. She heard footsteps outside.”

From SUMMER SHIFT by Lynn Kiele Bonasia. Copyright © 2010 by Lynn Kiele Bonasia. Reprinted by permission of Touchstone, a discussion of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Preston Allen

Preston Allen’s Jesus Boy got a glowing review in The New York Times, whose reviewer wrote, “Allen’s writing is by turns solemn and funny.” Publishers Weekly and Florida Book Review also gave it rave reviews. In addition, Jesus Boy was listed in the June issue of O, the Oprah Magazine as one of “Ten More Titles to Read Right Now.” Preston too is an alumnus of the MFA in English program.

Preston sent us this link to an interview he conducted about the book and the following sneak preview from his book:

“I played to comfort his widow.

Watch out, ushers!  I’m going to make them shake today.  I’m going to make them faint.

I played so that they would remember Brother Morrisohn, benefactor and friend—Brother Morrisohn, the great saint, who had put the Church of Our Blessed Redeemer Who Walked Upon the Waters on the map.

My fingers burned over the keys. Remember him for the pews and the stained glass windows!  Remember him for the nursery!

Remember him for the piano he bought me!

Now the tilting hats of the women of the Missionary Society were my target. I aimed my cannon, fired. Musical shrapnel exploded in the air. They jerked back and forth, euphoric. They raised their sodden handkerchiefs toward heaven and praised the Holy Spirit, but it was I who lured them into shouts of dominant seventh—Hear That Old Time Gospel Roar Like A Lion! It was I who made them slap their ample breasts through black lace.

Remember Brother Morrisohn. Remember!

The choir was swaying like grass in a measured breeze as I caught the eye of Peachie Gregory, my secret love, singing lead soprano. Though I seldom had dirty dreams about her anymore, I would marry her one day. Peachie winked at me and then hammered the air with her fist. It was a signal. Play like you know how to play!

I did. I hit notes that were loud. I hit notes that didn’t fit. Then I pulled the musical rug out from under them. No piano. No piano—except a strident chord on the third beat of each measure backed by whatever bass cluster I pounded with my left hand.

Peachie gave me a thumbs up. I had them really going now.

Laying into that final chorus like I had thirty fingers, I joined them again. I was playing for Peachie now. She kept hammering the air. I kept touching glory on the keys. The celestial echo reverberated. The whole church moved in organized frenzy—the Holy Spirit moving throughout the earth.

I was so good that day. Even Peachie had to admit how good I was. Was that my sin? Pride?”

Vicki Hendricks

Another former student from the MFA program in English is author Vicki Hendricks, whose collection of 11 of her best stories, Florida Gothic Stories, was just released in May. Booklist calls Vicki “the least commercial but most literary of the Florida crime writers.” From “The Big O,” Vicki e-mailed us the following excerpt for a slightly gothic glance into her world:

“My ass was tired of driving, and I welcomed the sight of the dented, mildewed trailers on the east side of Lake Okeechobee. Miles of trailer parks with single- and double-wides stretched down the road on the side by the lake, a few of them tidy, landscaped Florida retirement villages, but discarded refrigerators and broken down cars were the landmarks of my interest. I needed the worst rubble-strewn lot and the cheapest tin can I could find.

Some months earlier, Merle and me had made a Sunday drive up from Miami to check out what we figured was an affordable lakeside resort. When he saw the layout, Merle said he’d rather pitch a tent in the Everglades, but I took note. It was a place where anybody could get lost, and I had it in the back of my head that I might need to do that.

Soon I was in my area. Splintered wood, dead palm fronds, tarpaper, soggy insulation, shingles, and scrap metal waited for pickup, mounds of trash sprawling over the properties. Last year’s hurricane litter would soon be this year’s projectiles, crashing through windows, killing people. Not that I cared about people in general. Hell, if it was my trash I’d have left it there too. That’s the way I was, always dragging my ass, till teeth were in it…. I wondered how all these tin cans had made it through the last hurricane season. I pictured them in a big blow, rolling and bouncing into each other, corners smashed and contents banging around like pebbles in a rock tumbler. But there were survivors–cheap, crusty boxes perfect housing for an unemployed, dry-alcoholic single mother.”