Join our amazing community of book lovers and get the latest stories doing the rounds.

We respect your privacy and promise no spam. We’ll send you occasional writing tips and advice. You can unsubscribe at any time.


Steve Carr (USA)


I were only nine years old in 1935, born and raised in Harlen, Oklahoma. I ain’t changed much since then. As the sayin’ goes, old age is a second childhood. Some things I don’t remember at all, and other things I remember like it were somethin’ that happened yesterday. That stuff blowin’ across Main Street weren’t no dust and we didn’t live in no bowl, not a bowl you could see by lookin’ ‘bout Harlen, Oklahoma anyways. It were dry earth that was driftin’ ‘cross the street, top soil from the farms and fields carried by the wind, often in what were dirt-storms that swept across the plains killin’ practically anything that had been growin’ there. Harlen County were as flat as a pancake to begin with, and the storms skimmed the top layer off it like a razor shavin’ off whiskers. We had a farm about ten miles from…