Excerpt from the Short Story Entitled: "There's a Church in the Valley by the Wildwood"

I must’ve been about eight years old the first time I felt the throb of guilt. I didn’t mean to kill it – I guess I just didn’t quite understand death, finality, or endings. Mawmaw would live forever, the hummingbirds would always feed, and Mr. Vern would never fail to take us fishing. Everyday’s hot here – in Southern Arkansas there’s no escaping it – the heat’s invasive, surrounding, and overwhelming. If I were prone to making excuses I would blame it on the temperature, but I knew better – I know I did. I was out behind the old, green house looking for what Mawmaw called “live toys” – frogs, lizards, the occasional and fantastic snake. Under the pink and blue hydrangea bushes on the side of the house, I finally got hold of a little frog – soft and green like the undergrowth, its whole body thump-thump-thumping with fear. As all little boys learn ever-so-quickly, frogs pee when they get scared and before I’d rounded Pawpaw’s workshop, the little bastard had baptized my dirty hands with something far less holy than holy water. So into my fist the tiny guy went as I made my way to the carport to play with my toy in the stifling shade by the big, black body of Mawmaw’s Lincoln Towncar. The only witnesses were the horrified hummingbirds sippin’ their sugar water and the granddaddy longlegs huddled aghast in the corner. I hurled the frog against the concrete wall and watched as it landed on the oil-stained floor of the carport, its whole body thump-thump-thumping with fear. Soft and green like grass on a cemetery plot, wet with piss and blood and “This is war,” I thought. I picked up my poor victim and took aim at the grill of the Towncar, where the frog’s last breath escaped beneath a dull, metallic thud. I could hear cars driving by on the highway – quiet at first, and then louder and louder until they were gone – the rush of wind still whipping the grass into submission.