Another Dawn by Deb Stover

By Deb Stover

Convicted of a homicide he didn't devote at age 18, Luke Nolan has spent his grownup existence on loss of life Row. The evening of his execution brings Sofie, a stunning younger health practitioner who will pronounce him lifeless, and a benevolent priest to his part. whilst a freak explosion throws him again to a different century in addition to Sofie, who has misplaced her reminiscence, he sees an opportunity for a destiny within the past--Another sunrise he was once by no means intended to work out. so long as Sofie by no means recalls who he's, of course--or does it really count a century some time past? while his emotions for her develop even more suitable than his have to safeguard her during this unusual world...? a guy without destiny and a lady without previous

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I thought about Nudging it with my flip-flopped foot Over the edge, rolling it into nothingness. I closed my eyes against the grey Bloor Morning, café-curries and stir-fry below, The beginnings of the hot-dog-cart’s thick Grease-heat, all twisting my gut. Or was it you, perched above it all, something So grotesque, so instinctive, I knew you had come Some distance. Your stance, it smacks of faith And love and, well, it just reminds me of home. 38 Women of Tuesday Nights I want to lie for you like a centrefold Just like the women of Tuesday nights.

Still poised enough to light a girl’s cigarette, willing to bust up a good working hand on another lousy kid with too much education and straight shiny teeth, for brief stupid love, for a week of rain days to lie next to me in bed and coffee and toast, because of this I will avoid a pissing contest in the alley and maybe the next few. 16 Door-Buster Sale, Saturday Morning There is nothing sad about a lineup waiting for 33 cent turkey dogs on a Saturday morning. All under five foot five, an amalgam of rolled down knee highs, all-season overcoats and half-functional umbrellas.

I am thinking about Memphis, its squat and desolate strip-mall bars, the man who traced for you the map and penned a crude blue route to Texas. Did he smell like your past lover, or were you imagining it, do all men on the road to New Mexico grin crooked grins and smell of tobacco and printing inks, desert their woman for the splendid ache of youth and return each night to remind her of their absence? 22 Slaughterhouse Sonnet A million smiling Isaacs before you Stab cherry coin slots into the thick pink collars.

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