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Nebraska Close

By R.W. Clinger

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

ISBN 9781611524628

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your

own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an

infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be

prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced

in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from

the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the

purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains

substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which

may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your

files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination

and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to

actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Nebraska Close

By R.W. Clinger

Such a dark blue summer evening that feels complex and

sinister. He’s twenty-seven miles away from Lake Samoy in

western New York, surrounded by the most beautiful and striking

sunflowers. He deems it the peak of summer, although it’s only

June. So hot, humid, and sticky. A time to easily fall in love under

the ball of orange-blue sun. So windless out this evening. And so

necessary to take photographs of Almond’s Field while holding

his 35mm Nikon in both palms as a mosquito sucks the AB+

blood from his left bicep. He centers the sunflower in the upper

left-hand corner of the Nikon’s frame, stops breathing, becomes

motionless and catatonic, and snaps just the top of the eloquent

flower, pressing a silver button consecutively, listening to the

camera click…click…click.

Part 1: His Walden

Chapter 1

The life of my father was changed, absolutely. A forty-

eight-year-old man who enjoyed black coffee at dawn, crossword

puzzles, and the sight of flying squirrels gliding from treetop to

treetop. An honest man who betrayed no one, believed in God

but never preached, and regarded the land as holy, filled with a

necessary spirit. Of German blood and he had the thought of

being reincarnated, having the understanding that he was once a

Holocaust victim in Auschwitz, dying at the young age of twenty-

three. A drinker since my mother’s death in 1999, finding

pleasure in Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam, or Absolut. Someone I’ve

always trusted with my secrets, a mirror image of my

grandfather, Paul Charles West. A collector of National

Geographic , connoisseur of Whitman, and inspired by the

sounds of the wind, squawking chickadees, or the way the sun

melted over the Pennsylvania skyline into a spray of burnt reds

and composed blues. The only carpenter in our family who

specialized in window repairs. My father: Isaac Robert West.

I was like him. A clone of sorts, except twenty years

younger. Ink-black hair, flickering topaz-blue eyes, clean-shaven

at all times, five-eleven, bow-legged, with the tiniest mole on our

left cheeks. I created interior rooms using complex graphic

computer software at Schmid & Taylor Design. I had a wife

(Carla Benning) of my own, a son (Lock Christopher) that I

spoiled, and lived in my parents’ house, the place where I grew

up, happy and content, while writing this.

* * * *

Reflection: When I was a child my father would kneel next

to me at the edge of my twin-sized bed, instruct me to bend my

elbows and press my palms together. It was a position I found

incredibly uncomfortable, but unselfishly carried out. Next to me,

almost too close, my father whispered, “Shut your eyes,

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