Step inside the world of G. Frank Ferris’s fiction—meet the rogues, the romantics, and the unforgettable souls who live between the pages.
Tap a photo, watch them move, and read their story.
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From the Book: When the Moon Betrayed Us
Bellville, Texas, 1978. Sophisticated, self-made, and three steps ahead of nearly everyone—Sally isn’t just a love interest, she’s the one who got away. She had plans before you ever opened your mouth, and you loved her for it.
Whether on the back of a pickup or later in front of a boardroom—she belonged everywhere. Some women leave a mark. Sally left a legend.
FRENCHY
No one ever knew his real name.
He came with the tide, like a half-remembered myth—
thick glasses, thicker beard, and a silence that said more than most men’s sermons.
From his perch on the Seawall, he watched everything.
Said little.
Knew everything.
Some say he once played cards with the Dixie Mafia.
Others say he just liked the sound of waves more than people.
Either way, if you earned his nod, you’d earned something rare.
From the Book: When the Moon Betrayed Us
Alice– From: She Danced in The Window; A Short Story of Love and Loss
A voice on the phone turned midnight muse, Alice was more than the girl who danced in the window—she was poetry in motion and a heart full of purpose. With deep blue eyes, raven-black hair, and a quiet strength forged through childhood loss, she rose from small-town roots to become a top nursing student and respected ER nurse.
She married a surgeon, raised a beautiful family, and left behind not just memories, but a legacy—one that lived on in a scholarship, in the lives she saved, and in the soul of the radio man who never forgot her. Gone too soon, but never gone entirely.
Brick– From: She Danced in the Window; A Short Story of Love and Loss
Tall, thin, and effortlessly cool, Brick was every bit the 1980s rock radio rebel—long hair, dark shades, and a voice smooth enough to talk you into a midnight drive with no destination. He was the ultimate wingman and roommate, always up for a late-night burger or a half-baked scheme.
A natural on-air talent with the instincts of a showman, Brick rode the FM airwaves like a wave he was born to surf. Beneath the laid-back vibe was loyalty, laughter, and a rare kind of brotherhood that never really faded—even when life pulled the dial in different directions.
The Mysterious Woman from The Wide River that Separates Texas and Louisiana
From: Short Stories, Poems and Observations; Reflections from the Road, the Heart and the Past
She never spoke on the radio, but her presence echoed through every story left unfinished. Sharp-witted, effortlessly elegant, and cloaked in quiet fire, she had a way of making anyone feel both seen—and seen through. Her eyes held more than secrets; they held decisions already made.
A daughter of Louisiana, she lived just across the river, in a house where memory lingered like Spanish moss. Weekends with her were music, pina coladas, and the hum of ceiling fans cutting through the heat. She adored Tex-Mex and poetry, and she loved long drives in a pickup down to the island—windows down, radio on, laughter in the air.
She walked away with grace and never looked back—but somewhere, her shadow still lingers in the background of old photos, remembered poems, and songs with no name. She is the echo of what almost was, and the reason some rivers run wide.
From Chapter 12 of: What She Meant Was…: A Gentleman’s Field Guide to Female Subtext
The Happy Morning After
No one yelled. No one stormed off. He must’ve finally read the book…
They’ve had their share of “We need to talk” moments, silent standoffs, and emotional pop quizzes. But something clicked. Maybe it was time, maybe it was love… or maybe it was the realization that “You look fine” wasn’t cutting it anymore.
Now?
Just two people, coffee in hand, on the porch, smiling like they remember why they fell in love in the first place.
This is what survival looks like—with bonus caffeine.
Facing Bob Feller, a short story from: Short Stories, Poems and Observations: Reflections from the Road, the Heart, and the Past
It was 1986. He was 68. I was 28.
He stood on that mound in full uniform—tailored, pressed, proud—like he’d just walked out of a black-and-white newsreel and into my memory.
Most men his age were golfing, resting, or reminiscing.
Bob Feller was winding up.
His eyes locked on mine. No grin, no wink. Just that old-school fire—like he’d been waiting all day to strike out one last kid who thought he could hit a legend.
I had a baseball past of my own. But none of it mattered.
This wasn’t a ceremonial toss.
This was the Heater.
One last lesson in intimidation from the man they used to call Rapid Robert.