Yonder Where the Road Bends

Tom Abrams

Available September 2018


Yonder Where the Road Bends follows the path of Virgil Hill, a 17 year-old fighter, as he comes to terms with loss and love in the aftermath of the War Between the States. The story moves from the streets of Tallahassee, to the battlefield at Natural Bridge, to a wilderness settlement along the Manatee River. There, in a house built on an ancient Indian mound, he meets the woman he will love. As an old man in a new and unwelcoming century, Virgil sums up his life and reflects on his unique relationship with two friends, who have stayed with him nearly 40 years, though gone from the world all that time.


"A sublimely sensitive war tale rendered in exquisite language." - Kirkus Reviews




ISBN: 978-1-60489-217-X Hard cover $15.00

ISBN: 978-1-60489-216-1  Trade paper $8.00

128 Pages

  About the Author: 

Tom Abrams lives in Florida.  His story collection, The Drinking of Spirits was reviewed favorably in Publishers Weekly.





Excerpt from the novel: 



                        Early March

            Saturday evening. Smell of wood smoke from many houses. I am walking to the train depot. On the corner of 100 Foot Street, there is a gnarled old mulberry tree. In late spring the fruit will ripen, the first to do so around here, and I think fondly of Ma’s mulberry pie.

            I’d spent most the day wandering the countryside. I came across a little tumbledown school house out there, by a creek near a stand of oranges withered by cold long passed. It was one room, built of scantling pine, the thatch roof caved in and overgrown by grapevine and trumpet creeper. There was a doorway with no door, two open windows, one cut in the north side, one the south. It tilted badly. It was bare inside but for a homemade chalkboard, a piece of wood planed smooth and painted black. I put a finger to the board and wrote my name in the grime: 

Virgil Hill

             I made it as a token of some sort, tho’ I did not know of what it might portend.

            There was a fire in a barrel outside the depot, the old man who watched the place at night whittling a stick into a point nearby. Three men shooting craps by the light of a pine torch on the other side of the tracks. I’d hoped to meet up with a girl, but did not see her. So I was just standing around with my hands in my pockets. The next event of the evening might be to find a wall to lean against. But then I heard a rumble in the distance—the sound of a locomotive hammering along the rails. It is 9:00 o’clock. There are no night trains. Yet its whistle started up and kept on. This would turn out to be a special train. No freight or passengers. It was carrying news.

            Yankee troops had landed on the coast near St. Marks lighthouse, 21 miles distant. A raid was in progress. They were headed our way.