From the author of Desperation Road, longlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger Award 2017The acres and acres of fertile soil, the two-hundred year old antebellum house, all gone. And so is the woman who gave it to him. The foster mother who saved Jack Boucher from a childhood of abandonmnet now rests in a hospice. Her mind mind eroded by dementia, the family legacy she entrusted to Jack is now owned by banks and strangers. And Jack's mind has begun to fail, too, as concussion after concussion forces him to carry around a notebook of names that separate friend from foe.But in a single twisted night Jack is derailed. Losing the money that will clear his debt with the queen of Delta vice, and forcing Jack into the fighting pit one last time the stakes nothing less than life or death.
The Fighter by Michael Farris Smith is published by No Exit Press on 29 March 2018
As part of the Blog Tour, I'm delighted to share the prologue from The Fighter, I do hope that it tempts you!
PROLOGUE
When he was two years old the boy was dropped off at the donationdoor at the Salvation Army secondhand store in Tunica wearing nothingbut a sagging diaper. A Planet of the Apes backpack stuffed with morediapers and some shirts and mismatched socks and little green armymen was dropped on the ground next to him. Then a hungover womanbanged a scabbed fist on the metal door and a hungover man blewthe car horn and she ran around and got in as the child watched with adocile expression. Out of the car window the man called out some sortof farewell to the child that was lost in the offbeat chug of the engineand then the foulrunning Cadillac rattled out of the gravel parking lot,leaving the child in the dustcloud of abandonment.The door opened and two women in matching red Salvation Armyt-shirts stared down at the boy. Then they looked into the parking lotat the still lingering cloud. Out into a gray morning sky. They glancedat each other. And then one said I guess we’re gonna have to hang asign next to the one that says no mattresses that says no younguns.The other woman lifted the boy and held him up beneath his arms asif to make certain he was made of actual flesh and bone. When shewas satisfied she hugged the child close and rubbed her hand acrossthe back of his head and she said I pity those who have to live behindme in this weary and heartless world.The police were called and while they waited the women washedthe boy in the bathroom sink with paper towels and hand soap. Filthyfeet and filthy hands and the diaper was two changes past due. Afterthey had wiped him clean and filled the trash can with dirty papertowels the boy stood naked and fresh on the smooth concrete floorof the bathroom and they admired his innocence and beauty. He wasthen dressed in a new diaper and a Spider-Man shirt taken from a rackin the kids section. The boy did not cry and did not talk but instead satsatisfied between the women on a tweed sofa marked fifteen dollarsas if he had already decided that this was his new home and he wasbetter off.He was better off but this was the beginning of a childhood spentin the company of strangers. The next ten years saw him move fromone Delta town to the next. Four foster homes and two group homes.Five different schools. A handful of caseworkers. Teachers whosenames he could not remember and then stopped trying to rememberbecause he knew he would not be in their classrooms for long. Thesteady and certain build of restlessness and anxiety in this child whowas certain neither where he had come from nor where he was going.When he was twelve years old the assistant director of the grouphome told him to gather his things. Again. He sat on the bench seatof a white van with the home logo on the side and he watched thefields of soybeans and cornstalks with sullen eyes as he was drivenfrom the sleepy, bricked street town of Greenwood to his fifth fosterhome. Moving northwest and closer to the great river, to the fringesof Clarksdale, the once bustling Delta hub of trade and commercethat now wore the familiar faded expression of days gone by. His eyeschanged when the van pulled into the dirt driveway that led to a twostoryhome. A white antebellum with a porch stretching across thefront on the bottom and top floors. Flaking paint on the sun side andvines hanging in baskets along the porch with their twisted and greentrails swaying in the wind. A woman sat in a rocker and she rose tomeet them. She wore work gloves and she pulled them off and tossedthem on the ground as she approached the van as if readying herselffor whatever might be climbing out.She took him to his upstairs room and opened the dresser drawersto show him where he could put his things and he told her there wasno use.‘I won’t be here long enough to mess up the covers on the bed.’‘Sure you will,’ she answered.‘No I won’t,’ he said. A twelve-year old certain of the workings ofthe world.‘Are you gonna run away?’‘I don’t know. Are you?’‘Because unless you run away this is where you live now.’‘So you think.’‘So I know,’ she said.‘You don’t know nothing,’ he said and he walked out of thebedroom and down the stairs and out into the backyard. She stood atthe window and watched him between the slit in the curtains. He didnot stop in the backyard but crossed it and walked out onto the dirtroad that ran on and on between the rows of cotton. The sun highand a short shadow followed him. She did not chase. She stood in thewindow and watched until he was nearly out of sight and she was onestep toward the door to run after him when he stopped. A tiny figurein the distance.He stopped and stayed in the same spot for several more minutesand she could not know that he was talking to himself. Tellinghimself I don’t wanna do this no more. I don’t know why I can’t havesomebody. With the space between them she could not have noticedthat he looked back at the big house and said that place right theredon’t want me neither and that woman can’t catch me. I’m gonnatake off running and she won’t never catch me. Won’t nobody. Idon’t wanna do this shit no more. She could not have heard him orseen him with any detail but she waited. Only could see that he hadstopped. She whispered a prayer without moving her lips as if even theslightest flutter would spook the boy and send him fleeing on furiousand reckless feet. He stood still talking to himself and she stood stillwhispering a quiet and motionless prayer. And then from the distantsky a hawk flew toward the boy. It flew low and its wings were spreadwide and when it reached the vicinity of the boy it swooped andseemed to hold there out in front of him. Begging the boy to admireits eloquence. Begging the boy to notice something other than himselfand his troubles. Begging the boy to think of something other thanrunning from that woman. The hawk rose and fell again and the boysaw it and his eyes followed the hawk as it turned long and gracefulcurves in the bluewhite sky. From the window Maryann spied thehawk and she shifted her eyes from sky to land, waiting to see whatthe boy would do. The breath she had been holding was let go whenthe hawk turned toward the house. And the boy followed.
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MICHAEL FARRIS SMITH is a native Mississippian who has spent time living abroad in France and
Switzerland. He is the recipient of the 2014 Mississippi Author Award and has been awarded the
Mississippi Arts Commission Literary Arts Fellowship, the Transatlantic Review Award for Fiction, and
the Alabama Arts Council Fellowship Award for Literature.
His short fiction has twice been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize and his essays have appeared with The New York Times, Catfish Alley, Deep South
Magazine, and more.
He lives in Columbus, Mississippi, with his wife and two daughters.
Find out more a www.michaelfarrissmith.com
Follow him on Twitter @michael_f_smith
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