shhh…you hear that..
(a chunked up crunch rolls up below thin rubber tread, one toe from a line of oblivion eating up the memories cast with a wayward glance into metal reflections coated with Tennessee dust & moth wings gathered at midnight)
they were racing after gathering up the winnings, never knowing if BBB (big bad bart, as they had deemed him from that old Saturday toony) was gonna grab a gun, or something stronger, to settle the hustled score begot his tip jar fortune. never discount two females ordering Templeton & a chaser of coke to the tune of five quarters down the juke tank. they sank so many drinks to the sound of Twisted Sister and Secret Sister til throats went dry as they cried out the final refrain.
someone sang under a naked lightbulb in a dug out corner nailed higher with treated two by four, but they paid them no mind. they were road tripping on a dime, kicking every tire bald and every bald head if it was worth the time. when the obligatory Me & Bobby came over the PA, they decided it was time to sink the pink, and the farm, too.
she ran ‘em up and down that old chalked up felt with beer stains, and a bit of human nature for sure. it was certainly a Sunday morning bed for whomever couldn’t find a key, or thumb, to finger their way to the nested haven. in fact, rumour scratched in the stall next to the kitchen, that jodi was offering her honey for a bit of money or smack…she called it heaven, but cheap meth seemed to be what these parts brewed if the backwoods buildings were smoking something more than Marlboro reds.
they fled that five car parking lot that local yokels parked their dirt bikes, and a ten spoke ten speed with a burnt out spelunker lamp hanging precariously from the bars. every townie had a gramp who spent time in the mine. black lung got ‘em all before the canary died. damn yellow birds still sing a song when fighting sylvester (that black and white fat cat with a cheshire smile like any good diplomat).
do you hear it….
(a whippoorwill…its distant cry settles the hackles high for any good folk reader will feel the omen of death before her. better that, than the man who chases the constant chatter until he can’t sleep past midnight and kills ‘em all in insomniac rage)
THWACK >>>>>>>>>>>>CRA-CKING >>>>>> glass
The Daily Herald (which was only printed on Monday) reported:
Investigation ~ Two unidentified bodies were found Sunday morning outside county lines near Shallow Bottom lake. It appears their car missed the final turn sending the 1973 Camaro over a steep embankment. The wreckage was not discovered until the Johnson family was out on the lake after church later Sunday afternoon. They investigated after smelling a strong odor of smoke and gasoline near the far portage. Authorities are asking for help in identification of the charred remains. If anyone encountered two non-locals this weekend, please report your findings to Ed or Bobo at the station.
BBB twisted the last of the catfish guts, throwing the yellow, gelatinous mess over the burnt out photo that followed the Investigation headline.
A damn mystery if you ask me. What were two girls traveling through these parts alone anyway?
(Gerald cast a side-long glance at his 6’4” fishing companion. July’s black flies were thick, causing him to blink as they swarmed his eyes. He started to offer a retort, but stopped short, asking it only in his mind…. who said they were girls?)
(a fly landed upon the fresh catch that was sizzling over the open flame) ~
>>>>this was an impromptu story that came to me while listening to the Secret Sisters. if you lose patience with reading or understanding, no worries, to be expected. i’ve not been taking the time to write but just needed to get back to letting the mind wander and wade into the shallows, swirling the feet in the bath water hoping to dredge up a bit of sentiment in the sediment<<<<