On August 15, 1926, Wytheville experienced perhaps the darkest hour in its history, when one of its citizens was lynched solely because the color of his skin was Black. Long before the lynching of Raymond Byrd was memorialized on a plaque at the site of the former Wythe County jail, a friend of mine, David Monahan, approached me with the idea of writing a novel inspired by this tragic event.
From the very beginning, the idea both compelled and frightened me. I was deeply drawn to the story, yet I felt I lacked both the courage and, perhaps more importantly, the lived experience to tell it responsibly. For more than a decade, I wrestled with that truth. Ultimately, I arrived at a novel that includes this history—but in fictionalized form. Names have been changed, and certain circumstances differ from the historical record. I still do not feel qualified to tell the full truth of this story as it deserves to be told. That work has already been done with great care and scholarship by the late local historian John Johnson in his book They Gathered a Mob.
My novel, however, seeks to tell a more multifaceted story.
While I do not understand—and would never claim to understand—what it means to be societally ostracized because of race, I do know what it feels like to be treated as a third-class citizen as a person with a disability. A century ago, the experience was far harsher. If a disabled child survived birth at all, institutionalization was often immediate and permanent. That reality was another truth I wanted to confront in this story.
One of my sister’s favorite books is To Kill a Mockingbird. It is one of mine as well. Inspired by it, I introduced a disabled teenage boy and his younger sister into the narrative, drawing from our own childhood. I included memories of strolling the streets of our neighborhood together, planning imaginary journeys, always accompanied by our dog, Fluffy—who was tragically killed by a car.
After I lost another dog years later, I was devastated by the thought that I might never see him again. I had been told that animals do not go to heaven. That idea broke my heart. Dogs love unconditionally in the way God calls humans to love—and so often, we fall short where animals do not. I could not accept that such love would be excluded from eternity.
Years later, a caseworker visited my home, and I shared that grief with her. She introduced me to Matthew 10:29: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.” I held onto that verse. I carried it with me for years. It became the spiritual foundation of this book.
I knew I wanted to write a story that paid tribute to Raymond Byrd, to the pets I have loved and lost, and to people with disabilities like myself—to affirm that a meaningful quality of life should never be denied to any of us.
At its heart, though, this book is also a tribute to my sister. She is six years younger than I am, yet she often took better care of me than I ever did of her as her big brother. My childhood was wonderful because I had the greatest playmate in the world. She was my baby, and she is the reason I wanted to become a father. Through her, I learned the joy, tenderness, and purpose that come from loving a child. She has always been kind, funny, generous, and loving. Today, she remains among my truest friends and my most trusted confidants. This book is as much a tribute to her as it is to anything else.
On a more serious note, I want readers to see the connection—however uncomfortable—between the mistreatment and misunderstanding of people of color, people with disabilities, and even animals. These are very different experiences, but they share a common root: the denial of dignity. In the end, we are all God’s creatures, and we are far more alike than different. If the idea that “not a sparrow falls” does not convey that truth, then my work has failed.
Not a Sparrow Falls has the potential to be the most important book of my career—but only if people are willing to engage with its message. If you are open to examining the unsettling parallels between our present moment and the world of a hundred years ago, I humbly invite you to read it.
As its back cover summarizes, “In the shadowed hills of 1920s Virginia, teenager Eli Ellis moves through life in a wheelchair, his sharp eyes and quiet strength carrying more than just the weight of his own body. Beside him is his little sister Sill, brave and bold with a sketchbook always in hand, and their dog Fluffy — until the day violence steals more than just their peace. When a lynching in their town is hushed, the siblings record the dirty secrets of Stones Mill. Their handmade book spreads faster than whispers in the church pews, drawing admiration, suspicion — and danger. As community support swells and opposition turns threatening, the Ellis family is pushed to the edge, facing down the powerful men who would rather preserve silence than face justice. Eli must find his voice, not just on the page but in the town square, as the truth begins to stir hearts and shake foundations. Based on true events, Not a Sparrow Falls is a tender, unflinching portrait of a small town at the crossroads of conscience. Told through Eli’s wise and wounded voice, it is a story of resistance, remembrance, and the quiet resilience of those who refuse to be erased.”
This is the strongest statement I have ever made as an author. If you give it a chance, I would genuinely love to hear whether its message reached you.
Not a Sparrow Falls is now available on Amazon in hardcover for $34.99, paperback for $19.99, and Kindle for $4.99. Buy it at the link https://us.amazon.com/Not-Sparrow-Falls-Zach-Cooley/dp/B0G6T4QTX6/.
