Among the Wild Mulattos and Other Tales

Among the Wild Mulattos and Other Tales

Among the Wild Mulattos and Other Tales

Among the Wild Mulattos and Other Tales


Set in the suburbs and cities of the Midwest, Mid-South, and Texas, these stories explore the lives of characters biracial, black, white, and all sorts of in-between. The intersections and collisions of contemporary life are in full effect here, where the distinctions between fast food and fine art, noble and naked ambitions, reality and reality shows have become impossible to distinguish. Read these stories and understand why Steve Yarbrough said Williams "writes like Paul Auster if he were funnier or like Stanley Elkin might have if he'd ever been able to stop laughing."

" Tom Williams has done the near impossible in penning a book that is both undeniably entertaining and deeply thoughtful, Millhauser meets Bukowski meets Ellison." --Alan Heathcock, author of Volt

"Sure, we need the nudge of category to help us all think straight, but we also need the rangy trickster, Tom Williams, to do the bang-up boundary work of imaginary anthropology in these deadpan dead-on gems. These infiltrating texts take us sideways, through and through, turn us inside-out.". --Michael Martone, author of Michael Martone and Four for a Quarter


During the post-lunch lull at Cousin Luther’s, I thought I’d discovered the cure to all that ailed me.

I was staring at the menu of that fried chicken franchise in my hometown, trying to forget the three form rejection letters that had arrived that afternoon. Had the magazines been The New Yorker, The Atlantic and Paris Review, I’d have been on my way to the post office, but I’d been turned down by Random Acts of Prose, Amateur Writers Unite!, and an on-line number, Boning the Muse. With my fifty-first, -second and –third rejections of the year, behind me—and it was only mid-February—I might have preferred something stronger, but Muscadine was in a dry county and the package store fifteen miles away.

So I ordered a three-piece combo with drink and found a table in the back near the right hand window. I filled my cup with ice and Coke, then sat, my back to the counter and open kitchen. I ate my sides first, the silken slaw and peerless dirty rice, and was simultaneously anticipating the first bite of chicken. Still, glimpses of the Xeroxed slips—none bigger than a matchbook—flickered . . .

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