Nothing in their life stories resembles yours, except their humanity and pathos. A carnival barker's worst nightmare brought to life: a compendium of freaks, physically and psychically scarred, seeking redemption and attention. Chloe Red and Kay Sutter, age and youth, guile and beguiling. H. Charles Branhoover and H. James Branhoover, each with a hand holding that of Death. Bernrd Red, firstborn son without a legacy, self-styled cooler, preppy hoodlum. Zachary R., failed chosen one, father and husband, benevolently misguided by an angel of sorts. From the rivers of Pittsburgh to the streets of New Orleans, cut-rate rooms in a Hollywood youth hostel and ashes floating on the depths of a bottomless lake, these American Strays enter and exit one another's lives, bringing justice and misery, humor and mercy, asking more questions than providing answers.
American Strays is not your typical bullshit masquerading as something you can read on your cross-country flight with a bag of peanuts in one hand and a can of overpriced Monster energy drink in the other.
It's better than that. Way better.
It's literary, poetic, angry, confused, and depressing. It's a mystery. Yes, some of the characters suffer from madness. No, they're not going to be convenient and fit neatly into preordained rows because you want them to, or need them to. They're too fucking smart for that. Too raw. Too real. Too much of any one's hidden self constantly pushing to the surface and refusing to stay down.
It'll make you think, and laugh. It'll force you to mourn and howl. Beyond that, it makes no apologies for not fitting into your tidy box of what a book ought to look like.
Bravo!
I have my favorite characters but I won't spoil them for you.