The title Death in the Ring should not be taken literally. Most boxers don’t die during fights. They survive their careers of violence but are too often left brain damaged and vulnerable to many other maladies, medical and psychological. Nevertheless, I haven’t written an indictment of boxing. It is, rather, a celebration of the brave and talented men who in epic confrontations stir the souls of millions and thus persuade them to ignore the tragedies and premature deaths that await those who fight in the ring.
In this collection of thirty-eight chiseled short stories, George Thomas Clark introduces readers to actors, alcoholics, addicts, writers famous and unknown, a general, a lovelorn farmer, a family besieged by cancer, extraterrestrials threatening the world, a couple time traveling back to a critical battle, a deranged husband chasing his wife, and many more memorable people and events.
Hitler Here is a well researched and lyrically written biographical novel offering first-person stories by the Fuehrer and a variety of other characters. This intimate approach invites the reader to peer into Hitler’s mind, talk to Eva Braun, joust with Goering, Goebbels, and Himmler, debate with the generals, fight on land and at sea and in the air, and huddle in the death camps as, everywhere, civilization is consumed.
Category Archives: Kentucky
As I surmised in my recent feature about Pauline Tabor and her legendary whorehouse in Bowling Green, Kentucky, multitudes of worried people are planning to counterattack recession-induced financial woes by opening their own commercial houses of delight. Though Pauline sealed the doors of her regal establishment two generations ago, in 1968, and died in 1992, […]
Your houses are worth about half what you owe, gas is rocketing past four bucks a gallon, food’s gotten so precious you’re eating more lettuce than meat, and you’ve already told the kids to forget those elite universities and instead plan to attend local community colleges while they scramble for fast food jobs. Don’t be […]
I wish I’d been more on the ball and returned to somehow punish the scoundrel who sold me my first car. The deed occurred on an ominous weeknight when my stepfather drove me east of Sacramento to a fine suburban home where a slender dorky old man at least forty-five opened the door and said, […]