Bob Sutton
Bio
One time painter, latter day keyboard warrior, full time software engineer and wannabe writer.
Stories (3/0)
Beef
Out under the blue, the tremendous Texas sun shuns nothing, fills and blurs every sense, plush heat on the skin with the sizzle of flies, the taste of flint and hot orange and cut grass in the air and a distant dead dog reminder of the thirsty earth. Across the searing tarmac with its bottle blonde margin of scratchy vegetation an orchard sings with insects, a green anomaly alive with the hissing pulse of irrigation pumps and ditches, bought with cheap labour and the northern taste for breakfast juice.
By Bob Sutton2 years ago in Fiction
A song in Zanjan
The evening streets are full of echoes as we meander downhill through the golden dapple and lengthening shadow, the drowsy warmth radiating from bricks and concrete and ceramic tiles as the long hot day breathes out. Our laughter too hangs in the air, lingering in the hour between the insane heat of the day and the chill of the night ahead, reverberating, softening and fading against dry dust, mingling with rich smells and subtle sounds. The sharp tang of garlic and spices, the feral waft of drains and ditches, the smoke of charcoal and incense, the ghost of petrol fumes, threaded by the musical skeins of goat bells drifting down with uncanny clarity from the foothills of the mountains crowding behind the town.
By Bob Sutton2 years ago in Wander
The drowning of books
On the Tuesday when the world finally caught up with him, as the first rays of the sun cracked open the pale green eggshell of the eastern sky, Gerineldo flexed his shiny, old man’s fingers, stretched his sinewy old brown legs, prayed that his wife was not already awake beyond the clean lace curtains, and farted loudly and gratefully into the chilly stillness of the dawn.
By Bob Sutton3 years ago in Fiction
