f. r. wright loved to weave strange and bizarre stories for the children and old men who gathered in front of the hardware store. He told of odd things to come. Things no one had thought of before. Of strange people and even stranger events. Of heartless men and cruel women, murderers and creatures from other planets. He had only one regret. He could not write. His tales would be lost in the wind, but when he was sixty-eight and his withered hands were beginning to cripple the spinster school marm took him into the school house, handed him a quill and ink pot, and they began together to record what she called his Totally Twisted Tales.