A Rob Hunter Reader ~ MP3 Downloads Gallery 4

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An odor of mint attracted the francher to an unpromising patch of brown scrub. It munched contentedly for some minutes then collapsed. Wide speckled eyes bulged; oval pupils stared. A pounding bright blue sky watched, thin and close, as the francher's body stiffened. Under the brilliant glare of the high, dry sun its knee joints cracked, emitting soft popping sounds. An Andean vulture circled closer. The Francher
A woman popped out of thin air beside me. She was swinging a serious looking cavalry saber; She gave me the once-over and attacked. I ducked. Her pale gray eyes grew huge. "Oh, terribly sorry, old chap. I thought you were someone else," she said. "Are you still alive?" I said yes. "I say, good fun, what?" she remarked. A bullet zinged past and we dived under the desk. Mark Twain in Milan
"Arrgh! See me neck, lad?" The pirate's head hung at a grotesque angle—the weight of his fall through the executioner's trap had broken his neck but had not killed him immediately. Theophrastus Bigelow lifted a ten-kilo strand of gold chains to reveal his scars. "Admirable, what-oh?" The mark of the hangman was stamped on Bigelow's throat. Lacerations glistened swollen and blue, the touch of the rope. "They give me a good twist, they did." The Runaway Bungalow
"Sweet Jesus!" Elizabeth Profitt Pease has—for just a moment, a split second—the queer idea that there is an eyeball in her teacup. "Uh... hello, eye." The eye does not speak. She takes a swallow of Dr. Pomeroy's straight from the bottle and shakes her head to clear it. She squints; the eye in her teacup squints back—the eye is hazel and clear. It is her mother's eye. Chimaera Constant
“I am midtown. Manhattan?” Linda Winkelman speaks her question out loud in the middle of the rush hour push; no one takes notice. Linda is standing in the middle of a street. She can not recall who she is or why she is here. "I remember lemonade," says Linda. Buildings disappeared, people disappeared. Now it is her turn. Linda Winkelman was born the year they invented frozen lemonade. The Year They Invented Frozen Lemonade
Thelma blew herself away as she sat on her high red upholstered stool supervising the cash box at the White Street Billiards and Snooker. A symphony of flaccid flesh, she hit the floor like she had fallen out of an airplane, no parachute, and her pistol went bouncing toward Ed Seitz and me. We did not look up; there was a fiver riding on Ed’s shot. Cherokee Purple