Books by Richard Blevins

Every day, the old man enters the fallout shelter and works on the two manuscripts. He retypes the story of the cowboy hero beside the story of how the Negro boy really died. “Wisteria is a clinging vine,” he writes today. “It grows the way the old narratives do. But when I think of wisteria, it all comes back to me in fractals.” The working novelist learns to respect cause and effect in his own way.