A Bottle of Rain

A Bottle of Rain 

Jim Harris


Ever been seduced by A Bottle of Rain? 

A Bottle of Rain is that kind of love story involving a mute clown, a blind gypsy fortune-teller, FBI agents, an award-winning poet told to teach fiction, and now the last Kickapoo Indian girl born in Champaign County has, along with her pacemaker, returned to  the Land of Lincoln in search of her parents.  She finds Emily and Jacob instead.  Emily is a telephone operator who has dropped out of college for a horrible reason and is plotting to kill Ronald Reagan, and Jacob is a sad luck divorced college student who mourns the lost time with his daughter each and every day.  All in the year of our Lord, 1986.  Along the way you'll get a brief history of computers, a not so brief history of the Kickapoo Indian Tribe (told in a somewhat unorthodox manner), a revisionist view of Abraham Lincoln,  and plenty of the most essential elements of a good love story (sex and laughter).    

ISBN: 978-1-60489-019-8 Trade paper $16.95    Sale $6.50

ISBN:  978-1-60489-018-1 Library binding $27     Sale $11.50

340 Pages

About the Author: 

Jim Harris holds a master’s from Southern Illinois in Creative Writing. He currently works in computer technology. He and his wife Amy have two children, Mollie and Sadie. They currently live in The St. Louis area.

 Excerpt From the Book:


 When Ronald Reagan came to town Emily planned to kill him. She was kidding, of course. But she would pump this joke for all its worth. Emily, when she was healthy, was one of those people who extended jokes beyond all funniness. In a dry, deadpan manner Emily would extricate the joke from immediacy and elevate it to some redundant plateau, repeating it time and again until her surrounding circle of friends either offered to strangle her or began to believe her.

 Emily was a telephone operator in a hospital. She was twenty-two years old and dressed like a bag lady. She wore army boots and several skirts and many blouses all at the same time. Her hair was thickly curled: burly hair, the color of phlegm that flowed almost down to her butt, and she never wore make-up. She had small, beady eyes and a pointy little nose, and almost non-existent lips. She wore floppy hats, sometimes leather, sometimes macramé.

The hospital Emily worked at was just down the street from The University of Illinois. She went there four years ago for a semester and then quit. She would start up again sometime. Sometime was a ways off, as she started working full-time shortly after she had been raped, and working and not school had become a more successful recovery mode for her. Her days were numbered anyway.