Dew on the Kudzu

The Dying Moon Café

2012-02-02T07:36:00.001-05:00

The Dying Moon Café

Once upon a time a bunch of old cowboys would have their say
At a greasy spoon outside Lubbock called the Dying Moon Café.
Calloused, gallused, withered, water eyed in ass gone jeans,
Each told a story of rodeo glory, big bucks, and busted dreams.

No time hangs on the wall ‘cause it don’t matter none no way
And nobody gives a damn if you come or if you stay.
Old hands fartin’ and a blowin’ that’s what the Moon’s all about
Talking yesterday – not tomorrow – such talk will get you kicked out.

Caffeine and nicotine get hearts and minds going soon,
Another big time morning dawns on the Dying Moon.
Greasy smoke chokes the air as caved-in mouths flap
And Big Sal, the Rodeo Gal, gets ready for a lot of crap.

“It’s all a pissin’ in the wind,” wheezes clanky Dan,
“By a gaggle of old hands thinking they still can.”
He hops upon the bench, his roll-ya-own burned to his lips,
Empty butted jeans sagging from his wasted hips.

So it starts what them old cowboys come for:
Yesterday’s words as old Dan hocks and spits on the floor
“A Cowboy’s Last Sonnet by Dan MacLemore:

I am falling apart.
I creak and crank and can’t hardly see.
I cough like an old car that won’t start,
I count myself lucky to see a new day.
I wonder which will be my last
As I bitch and groan and try to stay
In a world that for me has passed
But when I think of you and find you
My heart beats steady, my blood warms,
For you are the only thing in this place
That eases my pain and fills my arms.
So death means only one thing to me:
The pain ends, my soul flies to thee.”

Now, that gets it quieter than moon glow
Shadows on a West Texas winter night
When nothing moves and the fat-faced
Moon shines frozen white.

Old cowboys know when the whistle blows or they can’t make eight,
When time runs down and when it’s their last time out the gate.
Quick as it came like a thought the silence is gone…
One breath when an old cowboy stands bare and alone.

So up hops bent Billy Joe, rodeo twisted body shrunk, shrank, and frail,
And lets out a squealing howl of a one time West Texas wail:
“There ain’t but one way to be…free
(Tell it, cowboy!)
Go where I want, do what I want, see what I want
(Tell it, lee roy!)
No wife, no kids, no job, nothing’ to hold me…
(atta boy, roy!)
Yep, free to me is a ropin’, rompin’, stompin’
Frontier Days Rodeo!
A manure stinkin’, beer drinkin’, gal chasin’,
Stampede Rodeo!
A leg breakin’, ass kickin’, ball bustin’,
Roundup Rodeo!

Now the boot stomping, backslapping, hand shaking thunder
And the vows that nothing will ever put them asunder;
They’ll be pards as long as they live and they swear to be true
To their code of rodeo, the past, and the red, white and blue.

The hands at the Dying Moon know it’s time to go,
The cold hand of a silent something has told them so.
But just like in the good old days they stick to their code
Of hats off to the ladies and one for the road.

Big Sal, the rodeo gal, slops up the cups, delivers her own thing
As cowboys mellow and settle to hear her sweet voice sing:
“So, cowboy, sing me a sad song, tell me what ain’t true.
Tell me about love and how much I mean to you.
Tell me I’m the lady who brought you down,
The gal who run you out of town.
Come sit down beside me, tell me your sad story
Of happy trails, good times, and rides into glory.”

So, once upon a time a wild bunch did have their last say
At a greasy spoon outside Lubbock called the
The Dying Moon Café:
When the sunrise comes at noon
And the twilight of autumn
Touches April seed
When a tear hangs like tinsel
Over the snow
While eagles drum the laurelled
Crown
And on the tide the crucifix wine
Is drunk
And the poppy is white-purple-
Red-gray-and green
While the nightingale sings
To the lion…
The cowboy endures.

Now it is quieter than moon glow
Shadows on a West Texas winter night
And nothing moves and the fat-faced moon
Shines frozen white.

Dedicated to Uncle Buck, Big Sal the Rodeo Gal, Ducky Harris, and all
the old time cowboys who bootscooted across the sawdust of The Dying Moon.

_____________________________

Author: Rocky Rutherford
Originally published- December 2011
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature
deadmule.com/poetry

The Bully

2012-02-01T07:54:00.000-05:00

The Bully
by Gina Below

This was not the first time I had been here in this particular predicament. No, this was not the first time I had stared at this particular door that I was forbidden to enter. As I glared at the strange green color that it had been painted I felt the burn of tears in the back of my throat, and my six year old tomboy anger flared and I punched the ancient swinging wooden door hard enough to make it move and hurt my hand. But I pretended it was my tormentor and it was worth it. The dastardly coward had hidden in the boy’s bathroom and with him my only store bought knit cap that he had again snatched from my head.

No, this was not the first time he had hidden here just to make me cry, but this was the first time he had not returned it. I had become very good at evading him as of late, changing my path to my first grade class, begging my older brother to walk me, or snatching it off of my own head to hide it in the pocket of my red coat and running like the devil himself chased me. But he was clever and relentless and I could not imagine just what I had done to draw his attention to me in particular because I wasn’t exactly an easy or silent target. I had two older brothers and any ladylike tendency I may have once possessed eluded me now. He had gone away bruised and limping on more than one occasion that I could remember, but it didn’t seem to help much. He always returned meaner and more determined the next day or two later.

My eyes burned as the tardy bell rang and I had no choice but to abandon my post. It looked like today was going to go be one of those days where nothing went right and if I didn’t hurry I would be paddled for being late. I started down the hall at a fast walk careful not to run and wind up in more hot water, but it was a long walk to the first grade rooms at the other end of the elementary school hall and mine was the very last one. The farther away I got from my knit cap the harder it was to see as the tears clouded my vision and my stomach became knotted. Mother had warned me not to loose the cap she had bought from a store in town for me to protect my sick ears from the winter wind. If I did I would have to wear a scarf to keep them warm. I had been careful, so careful, always making sure it was in my pocket or clutched in my hand when it wasn’t on my head.

I already stood out like a sore thumb; a scarf would be like a flashing red light on top of my head. I was too tall, taller than any of the other little girls in my class and most of the boys. My dark brown hair was too short and completely out of fashion. I had no ribbons or barrettes to wear in it even if it had been long enough for them or even had I wanted to wear them. I had a healthy collection of freckles splashed across my face and I would rather play the rough and tumble chase games that the boys played as opposed to the girly games of my class mates. And to top it all off I was loud, I laughed too loud, talked too much and possessed no ladylike grace of any kind. If you added that to the fact that I had no fear of dirt or getting dirty and I hated wearing the dresses that were a requirement and fashion of school attire in 1969, then you had a more than slight oddity to say the least. Maybe that was the reason I was his target.

By the time I had reached the door to my full classroom any dignity that I may have hoped for had vanished and my disheveled looked drew startled gasp from many of my classmates as they turned to look at the spectacle that was me. I was certain that I now knew what my Mother meant when she made reference to “This being the final straw” and I bowed my head from their view as I blindly made my way to the cloak room to hide. Into the farthest, darkest coat filled corner I could manage to scoot as the silent tears I could not stop fell.

For once in my life I was silent as the knots in my stomach worked their way up to choke out any other sound. Kind young souls followed worried for my well being as they tried to help. But no words were forthcoming as they awkwardly produced rough brown paper towels from the opposite end of the old cloak room near the sink to catch my tears. Nervous whispers floated around me as small kind hands patted my shoulders and then silence as I felt them move away from me. Then I heard my name spoken, not my real name that they called me here at school, but the name I was only called at home. I was caught now; the gig was up as I tried to push further into the corner, refusing to look at him. Now my brother knew and I had no where to hide.

Long seconds passed before I finally heard his words as he tried to calm and comfort me and I snuck a peek to see how mad he was at me. But to my surprised delight no anger clouded his eyes only concern. I could be an embarrassment on my good days, but right now there was only our shared smile. He had beautiful eyes like our Father, not the dark changing color of mine, but our smiles were the same. Right now he used the small smile, the one that told me it was okay. With the unbuttoned cuff of his school shirt sleeve he wiped my tears and somewhere behind us someone produced a damp paper towel and he placed the cool compress against my cheek. Finally I was able to breathe again and I begin to hear his words. “Its okay” he said softly and then I remembered it wasn’t. My brown knit cap was still stolen and in the boy’s bathroom with my stupid bully. I begin to shake my head as I remembered, No it wasn’t okay. I tried to explain, but my words jumbled as they often did when I was upset. Finally out of desperation he hugged me tightly to him and my rattled words stopped and we were silent.

As he let me go he pulled a dark brown object out of his back pocket and placed it in my hand, my brown knit cap, the one Mother had bought in a store for me, the one that was the color of my hair lay safely in my hand. I filled my lungs with air and let it out in a long sigh of disbelief as I looked up into his blue eyes again. Then I noticed the small cut on his eyebrow and the slightly swollen lip. His shirt was askew and a button was missing. The knuckles of his hands, the ones that held mine now were battered and bruised and his smile became sheepish as I looked up at him in surprise. “It’s okay”, he said once more, “He won’t bother you ever again”. I started to speak but he just smiled and there was no need.

Letters From The Barn: Homemade Wine

2012-01-31T15:54:00.000-05:00

Letters From The Barn: Homemade Wine

For the holidays, I got a lovely gift of some homemade wine. A riesling to be exact. Now, as someone who barely drinks, even knowing the type of wine makes me feel like an expert. I took it with me to one holiday event, but they were all basically tea drinkers like me, so I lugged it home again thirty miles on a snowy, foggy night.

The next time I tried to drink it was a Saturday. I had worked hard all day outside. I'd put new bedding down in the barn and chased a rabbit that had escaped the barn and was hiding out in the snow. He was wise, though. Once the goats and I got out of the way, he made his way back through the fence and hopped back into the barn like he knew just where he belonged.

After that, I knocked ice out of water buckets, tried to fix a broken furnace and worried over my septic tank. By the end of the day, I thought perhaps it was finally a good time to open that bottle of homemade riesling. I got it out of the cabinet. Found a special glass. And brought it to the table to sit and read a book for the rest of the evening.

Only, I had no corkscrew. Apparently, people who actually drink wine know that you need to have these things around the house. And, apparently, it's not included in the book of manners that one must give a corkscrew to your numbskull friends who don't drink and don't realize until the last possible second that they might need one.

So, I made a cup of coffee and put everything back in the cabinet. Then, I put it on my grocery list to buy a corkscrew. Do you think I've bought one yet? Let's just say that I'm planning on bringing it over to my neighbor's house the next time we do something wonderfully boring on a Saturday night like read the paper together or play cards. Do you think she might have a corkscrew? Let's hope she does.

________________________
Meriwether O'Connor　

World Book Night Sign Up Extended to February 6th!

2012-01-31T13:09:00.000-05:00

www.worldbooknight.org

Wrapped in Love

2012-01-30T08:17:00.001-05:00

Wrapped in Love

By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

She rocked gently in the glow of the warm, open fire that frigid winter morning. Harsh winds howled outside, fiercely whipping rough pine boughs against the small wooden cottage. As she softly hummed, the young girl’s nimble fingers moved skillfully over the sturdy, muslin material. She had begun the quilt just weeks ago when the chill of winter had, like a creeping fog, silently eased its way from the mountaintops down into the sheltered valley nestled below.

“Mary,” her mother had always said, “ Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. You must always involve yourself in a worthy, productive project during the cold months when you are unable to work outside.”

She always dreaded the arrival of those bone chilling, dull days spent inside the small log cabin, counting the days until the warmth of spring returned once again to the mountains. Mary yearned to view emerging fragile shoots of green on the now barren limbs. She missed watching fluffy clouds drifting in a sea of blue overhead and the chatter of busy creatures in the nearby woods. How she longed, stitching with daily diligence by the flickering firelight, for the sound of water dripping from the eaves overhead, a sure signal that sunshine was close and warm enough to be a true harbinger of spring. “I feel just like a mama bear,” she frowned and begrudgingly complained, “closed up in my dark cave to hibernate.”

As the days slowly passed Christmas came and went, a new year began its journey and Mary grew another year older, yet the stillness and chill remained. Mary continued to rock and daydream as the quilt on her lap began to resemble a bright flower garden. The same lovely, comforting images that her mind so desired seemed to spring to life before her eyes as the quilt progressed week by week. Would she ever be free to skip amongst the yellow daffodils on the hillside and bend to smell the sweet hyacinth blooms peeking their tiny head out of the warm earth, or surprise her mother with a handful of deep purple Iris that languished with such elegance beside the sparkling mountain stream? She continued to wish and stitch as the days came and went.

A certain uneasiness awakened Mary early that March morning and a sudden need to complete her quilt that day tugged at her heart. While the family remained nestled placidly in their warm loft beds overhead, she slipped down the wooden ladder to tend the embers in the fireplace and resume her sewing. Mary was puzzled by the deep desire she felt inside, yet was determined to follow the intangible, internal directions and settled down to stitch with an eagerness that surprised her.

At the exact moment she completed the last stitch and tied the final knot her concentration was suddenly broken. “Mary,” called her father with a certain urgency to his tone, “come quickly.”

Bolting from the rocker, still grasping the completed quilt, Mary did as her father ordered and scrambled quickly up the ladder into the loft. “Hurry,” he directed, “get something warm and soft to wrap around your new baby brother.”

It was only at that moment Mary noticed the tiny figure cradled in her mother’s arms. No one had told her about the wonderful surprise that was to arrive simultaneously that March morning with the welcomed beauty of spring. Suddenly, as though struck with a bolt from heaven, Mary instantly realized the reason for the unexplained urgency she had felt in the stillness of that early dawn only hours ago.

Smiling broadly, she stretched forth her arms and proudly handed the completed quilt to her father, who tenderly wrapped her new baby brother in the gift Mary had spent the cold winter designing and creating. Her precious quilt of love.

WASH DAY

2012-01-28T08:08:00.002-05:00

Wash Day

Bettye H. Galloway

Wash day was always Monday. At least it was always Monday in our little community in North Mississippi in the early forties. These were the days before REA found us and provided electricity, which meant no electricity and no running water.

Dale, with her two smallest girls, would come up our hill at daylight on wash day, and by the time we got up and ate breakfast, she had already started the fire under the black wash pot. By the time we were allowed to go outside, Dale was busy carrying water from the pump to fill the three tubs lined up on the sawhorses behind the house, one for scrubbing, one for rinsing, and one with bluing water for the white clothes. Dale had mastered the art of washday. She sorted the items from our hampers into three piles—whites, coloreds, and work clothes. The whites went into the first tub where they were soaked for a while, gently scrubbed on a rub board, and then carried to the wash pot and boiled while she worked on the colored clothes. The whites were removed very carefully from the boiling water with a broom handle and carried to the second tub on the sawhorses where they were rinsed and transferred to the third tub of bluing water. My sister and I were too busy playing with Dale’s girls to pay much attention to what she was doing, but we were allowed to keep the fire stoked under the wash pot and to hand her the clothes from the piles as she needed them. When the whites had soaked for a while in the bluing water to whiten them, we were allowed to help hang them on the clothesline holding them in place with wooden clothespins and being careful to space them so that there would be room left for the colored clothes.

The colored clothes, meanwhile, had been soaking in the first tub. They were scrubbed on the rub board, boiled in the wash pot, and transferred to the rinse water. We then were allowed to hang them on the clotheslines with the white clothes. The work clothes followed the same pattern with the exception of the trip to the clothesline. Usually the white and coloreds had filled the clothesline, and the work clothes (usually denim and khaki) were hung on the fence surrounding the yard.

After the wash was completed, Dale stripped us all and gave us a good bath in the wash water—her girls in the rinse water and my sister and me in the bluing tub. We were filthy from playing around the ashes at the wash pot and around the tubs all morning. She then carried all the water, bucketful by bucketful, to the garden for irrigation. Water was scarce and nothing was wasted.

Toward noon, we watched Dale and her girls walk down the hill toward their house, and we waited with bated breath for the next washday—a whole week away!

_______________________________

Born, reared, and educated in Oxford, Lafayette County, Mississippi, Bettye Hudson Galloway is retired from Mississippi state service (primarily from the University of Mississippi) and as the executive vice president of a drug testing laboratory.

Cotton & Corruption

2012-01-26T07:13:00.001-05:00

Cotton & Corruption

Boarding the Amtrac train from the Memphis station always made my nerves jitter like I’d just drank a scalding pot of coffee. Truth was, if I was searched for any reason, they’d find eighty thousand dollars in a duffle bag, and a Colt .45 under my black smoking jacket.

My ID said I was Christine Turner, but the picture beside the fake name happened to be Jackie Dawson. Yours truly.

In all the years I’ve been fiddling in the illegal aspect of the crime atmosphere, I’ve forced out a precise system when it comes to taking other people’s money.

Robbing a bank isn’t about the gun you use or which mask you place over your face. It all relies on the crew guarding your black-lined back —if you use one, I don’t— and how you get the hell out of the city. Get-a-way cars get you caught almost as fast as fat boys squealing.

Here I sit in my roomette with my legs crossed over the extra chair while the Memphis PD check every single car leaving I-55. A road block almost worked once a few years ago in ’78, but I refuse to make that mistake again. Now, the plan was to board the train, enjoy the scenery all the way to New Orleans, and drive back to Leighton, Alabama. I was confident the blue suits wouldn’t make the connection between the train schedule and the robbery time.

Making one big loop around the South East didn’t bother me. Especially when I have eighty thousand riding shotgun and nothing but time.

I locked the sliding door leading to the hallway of the train, and curled up with what I hoped was a clean blanket. The world passed by through the picture window. First, there was the industrial side of Memphis. Smoke stacks towering into the clouds constantly blowing grey air. Loblolly pines took over as the train picked up speed. Green for miles on end as we curved through the forests of rural Mississippi. Before too long, I was lulled to sleep by the sway of the railroad tracks.

The New Orleans train station bustled with people flocking back and forth from the souvenir shops. Not to mention, I was offered a shoe shine from two different homeless men. I kept my heels a-clickin’ as I made my way to the circular loop out front. The first taxi I spotted was vacant, so I slipped inside, and gave him the address off of Dauphine Street.

The French Quarter’s architect is something to be admired. The wrought iron paired with gingerbread styled homes adds to the uniqueness of the city. Someday, I plan to run the New Orleans chapter of the Dixie Mafia, if only because I want to make The Crescent City a home away from home.

Shadows began to illuminate the street corners as the sun faded behind the horizon. The air smelled of fried beignets and debauchery as the taxi stopped outside of the fetish parlor. The only disadvantage to making money from criminal activity would be dealing with shadier criminals than you ever imagined when first starting into the likes of crime for dimes.

I paid the driver his fare before tucking the duffle bag under my arm, and heading inside ACTS.

“Jackie, where you been keepin’ yourself?” Chantice asked me wearing pasties paired with a black g-string as I rounded the first corner of the establishment. “Donnie’s waitin’.” She flipped her auburn hair over her shoulder as she led the way.

We walked through a long hallway of black doors. The lighting was nonexistent except for a blue bulb in the middle of the corridor. “We’ve had some problems getting our trucks through a few checkpoints as of late. Keeping my runners out of jail maintains a top priority,” I admitted Alabama’s troubles because she was Donnie Mantony’s bottom girl. She probably knew more about my racketeering than I did.

Being in a glorified whore house, you can imagine the sounds I heard behind those doors. The whole fetish aspect came into play when whips cracked from the front parlor inviting tourists inside. A door slung open causing Chantice and I to step aside.

Strutting through in one heck of a hurry was the most average looking man I ever laid my darkened eyes on. His corn silk hair was combed back and parted to the left. He straightened his striped tie before passing us. Purposefully looking away, he headed to the door, and tip-toed out like a church mouse.

Curiosity got the best of me as we walked by the open door. I turned my head to peak inside expecting the Ringling Brothers to be shooting fire from some strange sex portal. Instead, I noticed a raven haired young woman counting money underneath a butcher’s meat hook. The silver flickered in the low light revealing empty shackles draped over the hanging metal piece.

Call me naive in the ways of love, but in no form, shape or fashion do I want to be suspended with my legs open.

Reaching Mantony’s office door, Chantice knocked with the tip of her nails. The more I stood in the awkward position of waiting, the more I dreaded going inside.

“Come in,” called Mantony.

“Jackie’s here,” Chantice informed him as she stood to the side letting me through.

Mirrors served as the four walls. I could see myself from every angle. Dark hair pulled up in a ponytail with my growing grey streak peaking out on the side. My duffle bag felt bulky in my arms so I placed it by Mantony’s desk before reaching out to shake his hand. We wore the same hair style. The only difference happened to be, Mantony was completely grey.

“Jackie, dahlin’, you been up to no good, no?” His Cajun dialect stood out far more than the Italian. Knowing the Mantony’s, I knew his father hadn’t been the one who raised Donnie. His accent came from his French mother.

“What makes you think that?” I asked as I watched him sit down in his chair, and almost bust the seams out of his grey suit. I’d bet he hadn’t seen his feet since Kennedy was in office.

The mirrors helped me see all sides of him, but that wasn’t the point. Donnie wanted the damn things up so he could see all sides of me. His usual business associates had been known to pull, point, and shoot when receiving answers they thought were untoward. This way he could watch from every angle.

“Got a Lincoln waitin’ in de back, yes. I know you got a Lincoln at home. No business of mine why you buy de Lincoln, no, but I know you don’t need one.” Donnie lit a cigarette as he fished for all the information he could.

“Lets just say I drove somewhere in a car that wasn’t mine,” I crossed my legs, and asked, “How much for the Lincoln? It’s getting late, I need to get on the road.”

“For you? Take it! We all friends here, cherie. No business between us. Did hear of some trouble, I did. Might watch that driver... Oh, who is he? De one with de Tennessee route. Hear he makin’ de trouble. Maybe he don’t want his truck goin’ through, no.”

“It won’t go unchecked, believe you me,” I said, wondering why Felton would intentionally get his beer truck stopped. I rose to my feet, and Donnie pitched me the keys to what I figured was a hot Lincoln he needed to get rid of.

“Be careful, ya hear?” He shook my hand again before I rushed out of the mirrored room, and down the hallway hearing the muffled cries of sex until I was on the sidewalk.

A few kerosene street lamps lid the way as I walked from Dauphine to St. Louis, and turned the corner with my bag held under my arm. Mantony owned a private parking area, but even with his power over New Orleans, he couldn’t get it closer than three blocks.

When I found the Lincoln, I was disappointed in the coloring. Puke green with baby shit interior. Black is the only color a car should be, but this Continental would be on my good side if it got me back to Alabama.

Sitting behind the wheel, I thought about turning right, and following the sounds of trumpet horns all the way to Bourbon Street. I had enough money to drink Johnny Walker straight from the bottle. What I didn’t have, was time. If Felton was forcing me to buy off the Sheriff of Giles County, Tennessee, the thunder was fixin’ to roll.

The desolate roads droned on for miles. Bad Company and .38 Special kept me awake as I crossed into Mississippi. I could tell without seeing the sign because the roads had more crater holes than a pre-teen’s face.

While the hours strained by, I started to wonder exactly what Felton Dixon had up his sleeve. The rank of the Dixie Mafia compares to that of the Union. Generation members get first pick, and Felton —like me— went as far back as you could go. My father, Royce Dawson, had proceeded to take over when his own father died. When mine was brutally executed at a limitless poker game, I stood in.

Now the Dixon’s had always been two steps under the Dawson’s. We called the shots, and they hopped to it. Felton should know better than to cross me. If he’s in on the Giles County take, he won’t live to do it again.

The more I contemplated the situation, the more furious I became.

Coming into Leighton, I stopped by Dawson Tractor & Farm Supply to put the eighty grand in the safe. Unlocking the front door, I snickered as I moved through the deserted warehouse. The safe was in the back corner of the office with contents ranging from Tech 9’s to customer’s approved bank loans. Come to think of it, the puke green Lincoln looked pretty good parked between the John Deer tractors out front.

Turning the handle to the right, I made sure to hear the clicking of the gears before I headed back to the car.

With the sun coming up, I knew sleep was the best option, but Felton was scheduled for a pick-up at Anheuser-Busch in St. Louis. Alabama’s one of the only states left with dry counties, so it was vital to get the beer to every bootlegger North of Montgomery. If Felton fucked up sales he’d be thrown into the wolves den. And let me tell you, my friends, Wolf Jackie doesn’t play fair.

I turned the Lincoln toward the old plantation house. Greystone had been built in the 1800s; the decedents of the original owners left it in bad shape, then the next line of trustees had done the same. Before it was laid to rest by a bulldozer, my father stepped in and bought the house along with the two hundred acres that went with it. Extensive renovation had transformed the nine bedroom estate. The upkeep was a bitch, but I enjoyed living where I grew up. Even if it was the house my father shot my mother in. God rest her soul, but she was a sorry excuse for a Southern woman.

Driving through the gates, I rolled down the window to take in the smell of the fresh-blooming magnolias. I hadn’t been up this early in years, can’t say I wasn’t enjoying it. The birds sang, peaches fell from the trees, and I was flipping the safety to OFF on my .45.

I had company.

Cruising down the driveway, I noticed the car was a red foreign made. I parked the Lincoln beside it, and unbuttoned my jacket before I stepped out. My heels clicked across the pavement with the rhythm matching the steady thump in my chest.

Moving closer to the car, I figured it for a BMW. The driver slept with the seat reclined. I knocked on the window trying to rouse her. The taps did nothing.

Knocking harder, woke her with a start. She jumped like a cat had crossed her grave.

I pulled the door handle, but noticed it was locked. She took her sunglasses off and laid them on the console before unlocking her door. I took a step back giving her some room.

“I’m so sorry. I waited on you to get home last night, but I must’ve fell asleep in the car.” Her hair was sandy blonde curled into featherback waves. One thing was for sure, I hadn’t the slightest clue who in the hell she was.

“Can I help you?” My voice was filled with skepticism.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I kinda got in some trouble over in Corinth. I figured if I wanted to work here, I should see you first,” she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“What kinda trouble?” I asked.

“Well, it’s hard to explain. I’m Leigh, by the way,” she held her hand out to me.

One thing I absolutely hate is a limp handshake, so I was relieved when Lee threw some grip in there.

“Jackie Dawson, my pleasure,” I pulled my hand back, and asked, “What sort of trouble?”

“Oh Lord, you’re gonna... it’s a long story..”

Leigh sure was acting sketchy. I trusted her as fair as I could hurl her, and she had three inches on me along with what I guessed to be, forty pounds. I’d always been too skinny, but I’d bet I couldn’t pick her up, much less throw her.

“Give me the short one.” I was tired of playing slip-n-slide.

“Okay, the short version... I’m gonna be honest with you,” Lee took a deep breath, and spit the whole thing out. “I finally broke away from my piece of shit pimp---”

“Whoa! Whoa! Shift that back, Lee! I don’t know what you heard, but I’m no Madame. I don’t run girls. I want no part of this.”

“No, no, Jackie! I don’t want you to be my Madame, I just want your permission. I mean, whatever happens in Alabama you’re the one to talk to. So, would you be willin’ to put the word out? You know, like don’t mess with me?” Her eyes puppy-ed right out.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you understand. That’s what a pimp does. I run a lot of things through this town, but I don’t charge the escorts. If I had to deal with every John that beat up on his girl, I’d never get anything done. I can point you in the way of some clients, but not much more than that.” I hadn’t said anything rude. I’d only told her the honest truth.

“Just show me where to go, and I’ll head that way,” her lips curled into a scowl of disappointment, but I kept my foot flat. It was down and in no fashion coming up.

“Follow me, I’m headin’ that way.”

I walked around the Lincoln, and decided I might as well drive it since it was handy. The engine caught with a purr. I shifted into reverse. While I was backing out of the driveway, I caught sight of my own reflection. Bags formed under my eyes from lack of sleep, not to mention, my head was throbbing with an exhaustion headache.

One more stop, Jackie. Just one more stop.

Cruising down County Line Road, I kept glancing behind me to make sure Leigh hadn’t gotten lost. The red car was steadily paced, even when I turned down a dirt road.

Live Oaks were planted down the side giving Rural Route Six an old Southern feel. Branches hung over the road, and if it hadn’t been daylight, you can bet your ass it would’ve been creepy.

A dilapidated barn came into view. I turned onto the rut filled path that traveled through acre after acre of cotton. Parking around the side, I saw a dark Cadillac, and figured Felton had pulled an all night gambling session.

I waited on Leigh to park before going inside. Once the door was opened, the carpet began. There was a full bar over to the side, and gambling tables of all kind lined up in neat rows. The place was the ultimate camouflage in the deep South. No barn would ever be considered a coverup. It was practically blasphemous to the culture.

Leigh closed the gap behind me as I waved at Felton who had the strangest look on his face. My hand reached for the .45, but I stopped as the click of a hammer echoed through my ears.

“All right you hillbilly fuck! Where’s the money? Hand it over, and I won’t pull this trigger!”

I placed me hands out to the side, and turned around slowly, “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” I asked trying to keep my wits.

“Now’s not the time to play dumb. I want the money.”

Her voice never wavered, even when she shoved the .357 in my face. This wasn’t her first rodeo by a long shot. “You robbed that bank in Memphis. It’s all over the news, you washed up bitch!”

At that instant, I thought I was headin’ into oblivion. An echo of gunshots filled the barn. How many, I couldn’t tell ya.

I caught a glimpse of shock on Leigh’s face right before her forehead pulled free from her skull. It seemed to happen in slow motion, even when bits of bone projected into the barn walls. As she fell, she gripped the gun in a reflex and fired a shot that nicked my right arm. I was in such shock; the pain hadn’t even registered.

By the time she hit the ground, her head looked like surgery gone wrong. She had her eyes—which oozed blood— but nothing else toward the top. Her hair blasted away right with her brain.

“Jackie! Jackie! I kept trying to signal you to duck!”

I had no idea how long Felton had been screaming at me. He shook my shoulder as he started to pick Leigh off the ground.

“We’ve got to get rid of the body, I’ll take her down to the lake if you find some weights.”

Felton carried her in his arms with blood pouring to the floor in long streams. When he headed for the door, a single shard of paper floated to the ground.

“Wait Felton, something fell out of her pocket.” I scurried over to pick it up.

ACTS

613 DAULPHINE STREET

THE FRENCH QUARTER

My tongue turned to sandpaper as I flipped it around to show Felton. His eyes widened to the size of half-dollars. At that instant, we both knew this had been a long time coming. We’d been pinned against each other all along.

Sirens wailed down Rural Route Six. Donnie Mantony had set us up.

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Amazon Best Selling Author Kim Karter is a born and raised Southerner. Her work has been published in Folly, New Voices, and MicroHorror. She resides in Muscle Shoals, Al with her family, German Shepherd and an orphaned fox named Todd. For more information on her projects and books please visit www.kimkarter.com

Letters From The Barn: The Gift Of Elderberry Jam

2012-01-24T15:53:00.001-05:00

Letters From The Barn: The Gift Of Elderberry Jam

I got the nicest gift the other day, a jar of elderberry jam. Now, I've never had elderberry jam before so I didn't know quite what to expect. The color reminded me of prickly pear jam, which I used to make years ago. It stained my hands the same shade of beautiful pink-purple that the elderberries seemed destined to stain my tongue.

When I made prickly pear jam, I'd find a cactus which wasn't hard to do. My yard grew cacti like other yards grow grass. Then, in the fall as their fruit (called tunas) matured into a beautiful purple, I'd harvest them. With tongs, did I mention that part? The only problem with fruit from a cactus is that it IS fruit from a cactus. Even the fruits have the tiniest hairs which are thorny.

You can scrape them off or burn them off over a fire, depending on whether you'd rather cut your hands or burn them while making jam. Always a nice choice to have, don't you think?

So, to have a nice jar of jam presented to me ready made was quite a treat. I went to the cupboard to find some bread to spread it on. Maybe something nice and hearty. But, no luck. Okay then, maybe something less exciting but still usable like white bread. Nothing doing.

I did find some saltines which at first disappointed me. But, as I was growing up, we used saltines for nearly everything. So, I opened the cabinet, pulled out the plastic container and began spreading this delicacy on them. Together, they were salty and sweet, much better than I expected. I enjoyed them far more with my elderberry jam than I would have the piece of rye bread I was hoping for.

As a child, we took saltines and topped them with ketchup for snacks. Today it sounds horrible, I know, but I still eat them that way occasionally. I seldom eat them with soup, which I guess is what they're made for. Maybe today for lunch, I'll try them that way, the proper way. Or, maybe I'll take out some other condiment like pickle relish instead and start a whole new (if rather odd) tradition.
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Meriwether O'Connor