All Wood Dreams of the Sun

By Steve Vernon

It was late August, time of the summer burn.

 

And the Tumblebug Man had come to town.

 

This is a short story for fans of small town folk horror, and coming of age yarns.

 

Guaranteed to chill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Vernon
• Release date: May 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201436018

Steve Vernon

Everybody always wants a peek at the man behind the curtain. They all want to see just exactly what makes an author tick.Which ticks me off just a little bit - but what good is a lifetime if you can't ride out the peeve and ill-feeling and grin through it all. Hi! I am Steve Vernon and I'd love to scare you. Along the way I'll try to entertain you and I guarantee a giggle as well.If you want to picture me just think of that old dude at the campfire spinning out ghost stories and weird adventures and the grand epic saga of how Thud the Second stepped out of his cave with nothing more than a rock in his fist and slew the mighty saber-toothed tiger.If I listed all of the books I've written I'd most likely bore you - and I am allergic to boring so I will not bore you any further. Go and read some of my books. I promise I sound a whole lot better in print than in real life. Heck, I'll even brush my teeth and comb my hair if you think that will help any.For more up-to-date info please follow my blog at:http://stevevernonstoryteller.wordpress.com/And follow me at Twitter:@StephenVernonyours in storytelling,Steve Vernon

Book preview

All Wood Dreams of the Sun

Steve Vernon

Published by Steve Vernon, 2021.

All Wood Dreams of the Sun

Steve Vernon

Published by Steve Vernon, 2021.

Table of Contents

Title Page

ALL WOOD DREAMS OF THE SUN

About the Author

Further Reading: The Tatterdemon Omnibus

Also By Steve Vernon

ALL WOOD DREAMS OF THE SUN

by

Steve Vernon

It was late August , time of the summer burn. The sawyers and lumbermen jumped like guilty cats when the rattle of heat lightning scrawled brittle designs upon the distant hills. You could slice the stink of the pulp mill with a log peeling knife. It was the kind of hot stale weather that made Timmy almost want to lie down like a lizard on a rock, feeling the sweat cocoon and crawl across his skin; thinking of sweat lodged Indians and last stand Foreign Legionnaires.

Timmy lay in the shade beneath Granny Jill’s lilac grotto, getting drunk on that sweet purple stink that never quite left the bush. The scent lingered in the bark like mildew in a basement. He liked to get down close to the roots. He smelled the memory and promise of spring like it was yesterday, forgetting about how very few short weeks were left before the clamor of a ringing school bell hollered him from out of the shelter of his dreams.

Timmy’s granddad had planted the lilac grotto, the year Granny Jill first wore his ring. Just a few bushes he’d traded a day’s work in the field for, but they spread like a beautiful cancer, until now, nearly fifty years since they’d first been planted the lilac grotto was dense enough for a thirteen year old boy to crawl into and hide.

There was a heart carved on the