This highway never fucking ends
American nightmare running scared…
Bobby Thibodaux was dead tired. And, except for the sixty bucks he had wadded up in a clump in the front pocket of his jeans, he was also flat broke. He was ready for shrimp season to open up in less than 48 hours and that’s what found him tooling along a lonely strip of U.S. Highway 90 just past midnight on a Saturday night.
Mick Rogers fumbled with his keys in the dark as he swatted at a cluster of gnats that were congregating on the porch of the lake house. Although it was close to nine, the skies were still dark purple, not quite fully night, because Daylight Savings Time had just passed.
Actually, Mick had not planned on coming out to the lake house until the following morning, Saturday. However, after rubbing elbows with department heads, alumni and cellists at the university’s gala concert tonight, Mick decided he needed a drive to clear his head. So after the concert, he stopped at his Garden District apartment, packed a quick bag and was on U.S. 11 headed north in what seemed like a matter of minutes.
It was typical Louisiana weather, already stifling hot at night in April. He drove with the windows down and the radio cranked, set on the local classic rock station.
Another excerpt from my upcoming novel, Fragments of Light:
One by one, they shuffled out of the falling rain to the shelter of Fat Billy’s carport.
Although the rain had only been falling for twenty minutes, which was about the time it took for them to leave the woods and walk to Fat Billy’s, the sky had been black, with purplish storm clouds bulging for most of the morning.
“Told you we should have left the woods a lot sooner,” complained one of the boys.
“Quit bitching you pussy,” said Fat Billy, as he opened a door to a small store room under his carport and handed out small orange rags, like the ones used in mechanic shops.
The following is a preview to my upcoming novel, Fragments of Light.
They shuffled noiselessly through the woods, only stopping on occasion to slap at a mosquito or to complain about the enveloping cold. They were all donned in camouflage, or olive drab fatigues they’d purchased with their allowance money from a local Army surplus store.
They carried a variety of items including a machete, an axe or two, and canteens full of water. Today they were trudging through the woods trying to determine what
damage the construction crews had done to the woods during the week.
They slowly came to a halt, and began to sip water from their canteens. The boys all hunched over and began drawing diagrams in the dirt with sticks.
I’ve been spending the past couple days wondering what it would have been like to write before the advent of television and film. And also, just how much of my own work is influenced, either directly or indirectly, by these mediums.
First and foremost I consider myself more of a reader. If given the choice between sprawling into a comfortable sofa or chair with a good book or vegging out in bed to a 12-hour NCIS marathon, eight times out of ten, I usually choose the book.
I caught the premiere of Hannibal this week. I wasn’t as impressed with it as I hoped I would be. In fact, this latest installment of the Hannibal Lecter saga is problematic from the get-go – for a few reasons.
After thirty-some-odd years, I’ve finally done it. I published a novel, an e-book to be exact, The Long Hunt. Although the temptation to drone on with a long, windy inspirational speech thanking everybody from my first grade teacher to my garbage man is strong, (I’d like to thank the Academy) I’m going to resist.
And it’s not because I’m an ungrateful degenerate. Oh no. It’s because apparently, now that I have this thing published, the real work begins – marketing.
The Long Hunt
If Hell was a cold place, and not the blazing inferno that old preacher Sullivan used to rant about during his Sunday sermons back in Sandersville, Jesse Cade was sure he had found it.
He prodded his horse, whose entire body trembled and shook beneath Jesse’s own sore and numb midsection. But the action brought little result. The horse tried to plod forward through the snowdrifts, which were above the creature’s knees. And then it would tire, and stop as its breath froze painfully before it could even completely exhale.
“Come on, just a little more,” Jesse muttered, wincing as each breath he took in burned and stung the lining of his throat, working downward into his chest. “The sun’s dropping fast. We’ll make camp soon.”
Mark drops me off at my mom’s house. The house is empty and it smells like potpourri inside. On the counter is a note; really a list of things to do while she’s out of town: feed the dog; water the plants; things like that. My mom has also left three numbers that I can get in touch with her at if I need to. Below the “Love Mom” is a P.S. that reads “no parties.”
I crumble the note and pour myself a drink. I call Timmy but no one answers the phone. I realize it doesn’t matter, though, because my mom’s car is still in the driveway. She’s taken her keys, but that doesn’t matter because I’ve made myself several sets of copies.
As we speed along in Donald’s SUV, I call in to the gallery and talk to Marcus briefly.
Marcus tells me some reporter from Fleur De Lis Magazine has called and is trying to set up an interview time with me. Marcus tells me the guy’s name is Ian B. Cane, and this strikes me as odd so I ask him, “He actually referred to himself as Ian B. Cane, with the B and everything included?”