Dave's Fiction Warehouse

I would like to personally thank President Trump for steering Hurricane Dorian well clear of Alabama (and parts of Florida) through the sheer force of his will. That was a close one. If the president had not been closely monitoring the situation between rounds at his golf club in Virginia, this thing could have gotten rough. It’s still pretty bad: We have a couple of small branches in the yard and some puddles in the driveway. We will rebuild! Where do I go to collect my FEMA money? The other downside is that it’s kind of an emotional letdown. After five days of worry about flooding and the impermanence of certain trees nearby (and at least five unnecessary supply runs to Publix), we’re ending up with little more than a tropical storm — basically, a couple of regular Florida thunderstorms placed end to end. Very wet and very windy, sure, but fortunately we won’t be needing Trump to golf us through the aftermath. Just think: He could have gone to Poland after all!   One thing ...

T oday, for the first time in years, I was out the door and walking before 7:30 a.m. That's quite a departure for a guy who has never been a morning person.  But I've been forced into it. Even though the official first day of summer was just a couple of days ago, here in the Sunshine State it's been summer since about April Fool's Day.   By "summer," I mean that season when the local dress code reverts to shirtlessness and flip-flops for anything short of funerals. Around here, a hat and a pair of cargo shorts are all the wardrobe you need until about Halloween. Fishnet tank-top optional. Especially after the solstice. Besides the temperature, the weather app on my computer also shows what it "feels like," accounting for factors like 98 percent humidity, no breeze and a fair amount of rotting trash and dog shit along my route.  A couple of days ago, it reported that although the temperature was 94, it would feel like 104. After wading through a few m...

It's another hot and muggy afternoon in Wichita, which got me thinking about books that feel cold. Not emotionally cold, necessarily, but evocative enough of snow and ice and winter wind to put a chill into even a stifling summer day in the Midwest. One of the chilliest books I've ever read is " Smilla's Sense of Snow ," written by Peter Hoeg in 1993. Here's how it starts out: "It's freezing --an extraordinary 0 Fahrenheit --and it's snowing, and in the language that is no longer mine, the snow is 'qanik' --big, almost weightless crystals falling in clumps and covering the ground with a layer of pulverized white frost." And it doesn't get any warmer after that. On this August day, I'm wishing I hadn't loaned that book out. I never did get it back. How about the other extreme, oppressive heat? One title comes immediately to mind: Robert Wilson's " The Big Killing ," set in West Africa. Sweat and humidity drip...