A Song For Alice Loom
Charlene is an underground dump fire. Louis Sabine is a dead Marine who played the sax. Together, can they help end racial tension building in Pine, after the needless death of a young mother and her daughter, plus the savage murder of an aunt whose voodoo was inflaming matters? Can they save the Looms and the Sabines, historically white and black families, who have interbred? Can they restore any semblance of love?
ISBN: 1-931982-75-9 Library Binding $25 Sale: $10.50
ISBN: 1-931982-76-7 Trade Paper $14.95 Sale: $5.50
Scott Ely was born in Atlanta, GA, and he moved to Jackson, MS when he was eight. He served in Vietnam (somewhere in the highlands near Pleiku). He graduated with an MFA from the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. He teaches fiction writing at Winthrop University in South Carolina. His previous book publications include STARLIGHT (Weidenfeld & Nicolson); PITBULL (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, Penguin); OVERGROWN WITH LOVE (University of Arkansas Press); THE ANGEL OF THE GARDEN (University of Missouri Press). His work has been translated in Italy, Germany, Israel, Poland, and Japan. There were also UK editions of the novels published.
From the Book:
My name is Louis Sabine. Once I blew a mean saxophone. When I played the sax, I blew doo-wah, doo-wah, wah, wah and those cats would dig it, you know. Then I joined the Marines and became a cool cat with an M-1. Right now the only thing Iím digging is the volcanic ash of Iwo Jima.
But enough of that hep cat talk. No kind of talk will stop those Japanese from digging me up. Theyíre working just over the rise with their metal detectors, sweeping that black ash, sweating up their polyester shirts. Death was a big surprise to me. That naval shell, a fourteen-incher at least, fell right on my head. I like to think, for some reason, that it came from the Nevada. But it could have been the Tennessee or the Idaho. Why that should make any difference I donít know. They always told me Iíd never hear the one that got me, but thatís not the way it was. I heard it all right, sounding like somebody was driving a locomotive down out of the sky over my head. We were pinned down by machine gun fire, so even if Iíd had time to run, I couldnít. I just lay there, my face in that hot ash. It didnít hurt at all, and the next thing I know Iím buried in the ash and looking down at whatís left of me. I call it the field. What Iím in. Itís not big but Iím comfortable.
Itís those Japs Iím worried about, digging away and probably every now and then resting on their shovels and looking off at Mt. Suribachi. For lunch theyíll cook noodles or maybe rice and fish over an alcohol stove and squat there in the ash and work those chopsticks. I bear them no ill will. Looking for their dead, thatís all theyíre doing.