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Chris’s collected works are a kind of patchwork quilt, stitched together from the fabric of his opinions, be they political or practical, his historical ponderings, personal anecdotes, genealogical forays, and vivid travelogues.
Each piece, no matter how small or seemingly incidental, contributes to the broader narrative of a man who has roamed far and wide, both across the world and the uncharted terrain of his own restless mind. Together, they form a portrait of a life spent in pursuit, of understanding, of connection, and, perhaps most of all, of a good story well told.
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by J.C. White – 2025 The great author from Georgia, Flannery O’Connor, once said in response to a question about why Southerners write about freaks so well, “because we in the South are still able to recognize one.” She wasn’t being cruel; she was being honest. The South has always known how to call a
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“One of them said, as if speaking to the wind, that big money was pushing little people against smaller people and the only thing getting crushed was culture. He said it and the wind did nothing with it.”
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And lo, the vessels sank not by reason of the enemy, but by their own clumsiness. And the scribes wrote it down as a victory, saying unto the people, Behold the terror of our navy, though the fish alone rejoiced therein.
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Her generosity, her success, became their expectation. Her brilliance and confidence became their wound. She was punished for both.
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Not stone, not wood, but a tissue of ridges and folds, pale and slick as entrails, pulsing with some dim phosphorescence.
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“No one speaks. The smell works its way into their faces, into the cloth at their throats. The father climbs down slow and tells them to bring her out.”
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“Below him, men and women scurry like insects under overturned stones. Flames claw at stone arches, devouring marble, turning monuments of arrogance to dust. “
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He had sons, all dead or gone to hell, and one boy they said was no boy at all but a wolf in trousers who gutted a man in Orchardville for smiling too long at his sister. “
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They rode like wolves and struck like lightning and vanished like smoke. And the Apache, for all their teeth, were nothing but bitches beneath them.”
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“The vial lay atop her dresser, open, half full still, the label worn by sweat but legible all the same: belladonna. I’d not seen it before. It had not been mine.”
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He smelled wood and cordite and the last supper’s lard still caking the pan.
Ramblings & Revelations 
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