I won’t bore you with the details of the burial. Out of necessity, it was a shallow grave. I buried him where I laid him down. The trees were closely bunched together, but the earth was soft. It didn’t take me more than half an hour. He was so small.
Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0
Fifty-seven. Four syllables, ten letters. Literally a lifetime of years, more than half a century in those four syllables, ten letters. It seemed cruel that cancer was going to take him out so late in the game. It should have happened sooner. When he left Handsome this last time, he was going to park his Jeep in the middle of town and spit on its corrupted old bones. Maybe take a piss in the blackened, empty lot that was The Handsome Hotel.
No. He was too tired and too old to hold onto all the resentments. It was done, it was done a long time ago.
Sharp curve up next. The gravel was so eroded it was practically sand. No one ever graded Little Route as far as he knew. He guessed the town owned it, but never maintained it. No reason to keep it up to code. No one ever traveled it, and the dead end wasn’t even interesting enough to turn into a decent ghost story.
He took the curve slowly, slower than necessary, but not out of any concern for his vehicle. He drove a few more yards and pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road. He rolled up the windows and turned on the air. He was going to be here for awhile, and wanted to cool down first.
He closed his eyes and listened to the soft air hush through the vents. It got cold almost immediately, but he let it run. It was good for the flowers in the back seat. And cold air always felt good to him.
“I miss you, son,” he said to no one.
He sat for almost fifteen minutes, eyes shut, a few tears squeezed out. Fifty-seven years.
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His hands were bloody claws; dark crimson was still spurting between his spread fingers. Those hands were not used to suffering, or hard work. There were no scars, only smooth lines of flesh now savagely washed clean. The only callus was on his right forefinger, where he held his burlap jug. I know it was a mean thought, a dark and sad thought, but my husband was not a working man; he was a resting man, content to drink corn liquor on the porch. And now he was not even that.
What kind of a wife would have such dark thoughts? I loved him, yes, but that also meant I knew him. What thoughts did he have of me, I wondered. He loved me, yes, but he did not know me. Horror flowed through me as I stared at his pristine red hands, forever and ever stained….
Excerpt from A Very Tall Summer… coming soon
I thought I was finished with the cover for A Very Tall Summer, but I’m easily bored, and so changed it. It’s has a simpler and cleaner look, and I like it.
One more read-through, and the book should be finished, insomuch as they’re ever finished. Sometimes it’s hard to let go.
Excerpt from A Very Tall Summer… coming soon.
“Keep looking. This is all distracting you from your job. It’s a big room, and you’ve got four walls to find it. Thinking is slowing you down.”
“I’ll find it. What else do I have to do? And I’m not sure Del is coming back. He’s afraid of me.”
“He likes you, is all,” said Wynn. “You’re a fresh widow. He doesn’t know when he should be pressing you.”
“He said he wanted to lick my neck.” Continue reading “In a big room”