From the archives, here’s my first published story. Originally published in Prairie Fire magazine (Vol.26 issue 3, Autumn 2005, for those who are interested.) It’s not a crime or mystery story, it’s a literary story in a literary magazine, and as such is more about atmosphere than plot or narrative arc.

I am very grateful to Prairie Fire for their encouragement and support in publishing this, as rough around the edges as it is.

The first few paragraphs are below.
The full story can be viewed in PDF form here: The Bands.

The Bands
E.R Brown

Greenly The Toad (1969)

The verge of the eighth-hole green was as soft and comfortable as a lounge chair. Between the green and the ninth-hole tee, hundreds of empty beer cans were crushed and scattered across the Kentucky bluegrass. Some oozed a gelatinous goo of cigarette ash and beer. One of the bushes dripped with vomit. Over by the ball washer the garbage bin was jammed with golfer trash, beer cartons and greasy patates-frites bags. From 1 to 5AM—when the groundskeepers and mosquitoes had retired for the night, and the security guard was watching TV in the clubhouse—the country club was ours.

John and I lay on the slope beside the green, watching car lights on the Montreal to Ottawa highway. The lights shimmered in the heat, or maybe it was me. We were too drunk to stand up. The after-show party was long over, and the rest of the band and our friends and groupies had straggled off to their various homes.

“Fucking great set,” I said.

John nodded, and belched. “Fucking right. White Room?”

“Note for note.”

“And Phil didn’t rush.”

[to continue reading, view the PDF file, above]


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