It’s still dark, and there’s still a dead body in the back of the pickup. We have to do something before sunup, and time’s running out. Time is greasy and melting like candle wax. The lines on the road are skewed, angled pell-mell. The sky is a thunderous canopy, blackened and bruised and moving like smoke. The wind smells sour and wet, and the road looks hand-drawn. Tree branches are too close and too low to the truck, and they scrape against the sides, sounding like scratched tinfoil. Continue reading “Ordinary Handsome: Driving in shadows”
When he tripped over what appeared to be a ribcage, Ricky clutched his Nikon close to his chest. He saw the bones and wondered if a ground angle shot would work best. Maybe a shallow focus. The light was thin and the shadows were heavy, but….
And then he realized these were human bones. His first thought was that he had discovered a deer carcass. Up close and at ground level, he understood.
A few feet away, there were even more bones: a femur, a dissevered pelvis, a skull. The skull had been shattered, and the remaining bones were weathered and splintered, stained an ugly corrosive brown. They were scraped and punctured by teeth. The ground around him was a makeshift burial circle.
Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome. Available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0
Free downloadable Kindle app also available.
It took us about twenty minutes to find a decent place. The ground was flat and hard, but it yielded to a shovel without too much effort. There was a circle of old pines surrounding the spot. You can tell the strength of soil by the strength of the trees that have set their roots. Not even a heavy rain was going to wash away the dirt.
I pointed the flashlight at Kincaid’s shoes. Were you planning to dig a hole wearing wingtips, I asked. My temper was not soft, and it was firming up every minute I had to spend with him. Continue reading “Digging”
He hitched his pants. They were too big and baggy on his lean frame. Then he rubbed his hands on his knees. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to clean his hands or wipe off the flakes of dried blood from his pants. He moved slowly, like he was in a trance. All the crazy energy he had when I drove up was gone. Continue reading “A Shooting”
Among all my other tools, I kept a fifty-pound bag of lime and an empty coffee can in the back of the Jeep. Nobody would pay any mind to it, since there were a lot of dirt basements in Handsome. After a rain like this, the dampness stunk up houses and clouded backyards with septic overflows.
I needed to keep Jackson as fresh as I could. I’d sprinkle it over him like pepper in a soup pot. It helped, but only a little. Continue reading “Ordinary Handsome: Preparation”
An excerpt from Ordinary Handsome – Reposted from Nov. 27/14
This is my largest excerpt available from my novel Ordinary Handsome. Available from Amazon -http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0. Makes for a dark Valentine’s Day gift.
Fifty-seven years ago I killed a boy. Tonight, Euart Monroe walked into my room with a Mossberg 510 and a stained hobo mattress and fired a shot into my belly. It should have killed me right off, but he didn’t want that. He wanted me to know who pulled the trigger.
I could taste the backsplash in my mouth, dripping bile and bowel, and it tasted like bits of wet cabbage.
Calm yourself, Jimmy, she oftentimes said.
Arlene. I can still smell your hair, and it smells like black tea.
The clock says 2:45. One more morning added to the four dozen years since she passed.
Look here, I see the crepe myrtle in the backyard, tinted like cherry Popsicles, and the first blush on the garden tomatoes. I can smell the late-spring mint that grows wild beside the porch. I can hear Arlene humming something sweet in the kitchen, a lullaby for no one. I hold on to these things – smells, colors, sounds — for as long as I can, because none of it is real. Reality is the reek of greasy undershirts, the whorl of colored lights on a police car, the damp black gases seeping from my bowels.
The box fan in the window filters the slushy noises from the street, curling the sounds into voices, rhythms, cockeyed conversation. But there’s no one outside, not now, not in Handsome. It’s only white noise sluicing through the blades. There’s no one out there to hear the echoing rip shot from the 510. Continue reading “Dead Handsome”