David Wesley Williams
Goodreads Author
Born
Maysville, Ky., The United States
Website
Twitter
Genre
Influences
Faulkner and Welty. Blues and jazz. Bourbon and coffee. Memphis and th
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Member Since
October 2011
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Long Gone Daddies
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published
2013
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5 editions
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Memphis Noir (Akashic Noir)
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published
2015
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5 editions
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Forty Stories
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2012
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3 editions
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Everybody Knows
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Come Again No More
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I'll Take You There
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Come Again No More
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David’s Recent Updates
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David Williams
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| “Pineville Trace” is a novella-in-flash about a former revival preacher on a sort of pilgrimage to his past. He’s a solitary man named Frank, given to introspection and drink, but is good company to his cat named Buffalo. Most of his other encounters ...more | |
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David Williams
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David Williams
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David Williams
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David Williams
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David Williams
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“And then we had the wake. It was lovely with tears and laughter, roar and uproar. Nobody died. Well, only a little. We all died a little. But death mostly let us be. Death seemed to think there was, for us, a fate worse than it. Which left us alive in the end, and so very, very drunk.”
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“Good puzzle would be cross Memphis without passing a barbecue joint.”
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“The sun played children’s games with the clouds, but the clouds grew tired of such trifling and turned dark.
Two days out of Memphis, a sort of desperation set in aboard the Clementine. Nerves were frayed from the long journey west and patience was as short as the supply of whiskey—a cross look could get you a poke in the eye, a sarcastic remark might prompt a pot shot from one of the cheap pistols that suddenly proliferated on board. Children carried them, even. The snotnoses—armed!”
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Two days out of Memphis, a sort of desperation set in aboard the Clementine. Nerves were frayed from the long journey west and patience was as short as the supply of whiskey—a cross look could get you a poke in the eye, a sarcastic remark might prompt a pot shot from one of the cheap pistols that suddenly proliferated on board. Children carried them, even. The snotnoses—armed!”
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“He tried the crank radio, a pirate station out of Memphis. Static and guitar scratch, the straggling notes of a song about home.”
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“Some nights, we have the road to ourselves and the radio sings only for us. We play our shows and tear-ass out. Tonight, it was this little dive bar in a town we took to calling East Motherless. But we play, no matter. We rock and then we roll. The soundcheck and the fury, the power chord and the glory. Then we load our gear into a muddy-brown Merc with a little trailer behind, and we’re off. Slinging gravel, filling sky with road.”
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