The Grotto

 Here's my new book, the entirety of which is found below.

Fisherman    "I bet it's a damn turtle," Randy grumbled, gently tugging the line to get it moving, and hopefully get it free of the weeds. "If I don't lose my brand-new lure..." he swore.    Even if it didn't outright snap the line, he really didn't want to have to wrestle the thing up on the bank, then try and pry the hook out from its little snapping jaws.    He gave the line a few tugs to test it, and soon it came up off of the lake bottom. When he felt it, though, it was obvious it was merely an object of some sort, and he found himself suddenly intrigued.    He couldn't get it reeled in soon enough.    When, finally, it broke the water's surface, and an old, sodden combat boot came surging up from the murky depths gushing silt, he stood there bewildered and stared at it.    He picked it up and turned it around in his hand and examined it for a moment, and saw that it was caked with mud inside. Upending it, he dumped it on ...

The Sun Will Still Shine      A knock came at the door. Gavin looked up from his place on the bare bunk of his cell. The guard had peeled away the cover from the window and now peered through the opening.    "The doctor's here to see you," he announced, then stepped aside, allowing the doctor room to step into the gap and acknowledge Gavin, before the mat was dropped back into place.    Soon, Gavin heard the doctor pulling up a chair, which grated on the cement floor, stopped, then the metal slot on the door slid open and a pair of eyes appeared in the opening.    "Come," said the doctor, "I wish to speak with you."    Gavin drew up and kneeled beside the door.    "How are you feeling? Anything on your mind?" asked the doctor, who stared at him intently.    "Well," replied Gavin, "I'm afraid..." He cast a glance around the confines of the cell.    "Afraid?" the doctor asked. "What are you afraid of? The...

Phantom Limb      Every so often, Jack would peer over at the glass jar sitting atop his desk and scrutinize the severed hand inside. The way it floated in the viscous liquid it looked as if it could be animated in some kind of articulating gesture, and, even with its slightly gnarled fingers and its unhealthy-looking cast of color, it seemed so life-like, as if still alive, not the dead hunk of bone and flesh it was.    When they had amputated his right hand Jack had requested they let him keep it and had them put it in a jar for him, so as to take it home for a memento.    That was some years ago, but still the damn thing captivated him as it always had. And now, it was something of a paperweight that sat atop his work desk, on display for both him and anyone who came in. He had no shame about it. On the contrary, he and his clientele found it amusing and an interesting conversation piece.    As he glared at it, he imagined that he still ha...