Fall 1984 • Vol. VI No. 4 Fiction |

Isaac Trimble’s Tale

Captain Shackford lived here most 30 years, and nobody knew him better than I did. I saw him come down the Ohio River and land here at Portsmouth two years after the century turned. He was already an old man of 66. He bought lot 17 from Henry Massie. I also saw him shortly before he died at 93, an old man's woolen shawl hunched over his shoulders. They named our town in his honor, being he come from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, all those years before, where he'd been captain of a frigate. He'd earned the title of Captain, and nobody grudged to give it in his hearing. Never any doubt about one thing, though; Captain Shackford was peculiar, and announced the fact louder than drum and bugles could have done, or a brass cannon. First thing he did was hire carpenters and tell them exactly how his dwelling should be. Build her straight up, two stories, he said. Windows all around and a board porch to reach from ear to ear. Plenty of room, and do not spare the black walnut. Only thi

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Bothering

By Jack Matthews

Captain Shackford lived here most 30 years, and nobody knew him better than I did. I saw him come down the Ohio River and land here at Portsmouth two years […]

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