Tom Franklin shucks the Southern short story about poachers right on down to the cob. His words as Southern as they get emerges the reader in the real South many never get to know riding down I-75 or across I-10, and you will soon know as you start reading he has been in the deep woods not wearing the latest Cabala's outfit just for the sport of it. Shining deer, fishing with dynamite, trot lines, etc. are not done for bragging rights at the next sportsman or country club meeting, and this is the life of the poacher. His stories are not dripping with cane syrup and draped moss covered verandas, they will grab you and not let go even after the story on the page ends.

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