Great Writers - J

Jacqueline was born and raised in Corpus Christi and graduated from Incarnate Word Academy High School. She is a wife, mother, and lover of all academic disciplines, specifically those involving the English language and writing. Jacqueline works as a Freelance Writer and as an Instructional Consultant for the Stone Writing Center at Del Mar College. She is also a Contributing Writer for The Bend and Inspire Coastal Bend Magazines. 

Everywhere I looked, there was red. Then again, red is the universal color of romance and love, and well, I was at a wedding. Ugh. The things I do for my sister. She looked so beautiful and happy in her wedding gown, as the groom spun her in circles, then dipped her back and kissed her on her cherry red lips. Gross. Why do couples have to be so mushy? I shifted my focus to the table where the gold vases held bouquets of flowers in vibrant shades of crimson and burgundy, and the way the color popped off of the black and white table linens was a bold reminder of the absence of love in my life. Thank God for alcohol. The blood-red liquid dancing in the tall crystal goblet that I had been nursing for the past few hours was the only companion I had. It was all I could focus on as I realized that this was probably the 5th wedding I’d been to this year, and I was still alone. I’d already made peace with it…I suppose. 

As I looked around the room, people were leaving and the dance floor was dying down, with the exception of the bride and groom and a few other couples, so I took this as my cue to head out. I didn’t realize the degree of my inebriated state until I stood up to walk in my 4” Jimmy Choo’s; it was like watching a drunken horse trotting. I was trying my hardest to walk out without appearing like the train wreck that I was at the moment. I finally found the door and breathed a sigh of relief because I was free from the love in the air that was suffocating me.

read a longer excerpt in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Sitting in the corner 

while my world is going dim,

I’m thinking that I hear a voice-

My sanity is wearing thin.

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

Jen Deselms says she has been surfing badly since moving to the area in 1994 from landlocked states. 

We loaded our duffle bags this morning. They are bound for the airfield. 

Now we wait. 

It is Christmas Eve 1990. It is cold. The narrow, wooden barracks refuse to hold warmth. I have been a full-time soldier for 38 days, 34 of them at Fort Riley. I am surrounded by hundreds, but I am alone. Sure, I have known some of my barracks mates for years, but only in the one-weekend a month sort of way. 

Some know that until 38 days ago, I worked for a small newspaper. Some know I read a lot. Some know I like to write. Others know that I am lousy poker player. Do they know I am cursing the choices I made that brought me here? Do they know I am worried? Ok, maybe, more than worried? Do they know it has been 16 days since I smoked a cigarette? Do they know it’s because I fear I might have to run when it’s really important and my short legs require every advantage? 

Do they know that I fear failing to be brave in a moment of crisis? Do they know that I worry I may never get back home? Probably. But I don’t tell them. I don’t tell anyone. I can only assume we are all worried.

In two days, we fly out bound for a desert on the other side of the world. They will be all that I have. 

Last night, I called my family and had to tell my sister, fresh home from a semester abroad, I was going to a war not some cushy stateside locale or even to a spot in Germany. Why hadn’t they told her? Why did I have to do it, standing at a payphone, in the cold on a bad connection. And Grandma keeps telling me that she is praying I won’t go. I have told her that is a pointless prayer and to pray for something else. I am as harsh as the Kansas wind. I am not angry at her. I am angry at everyone. Angry at everything. I don’t make it home for Christmas much anymore, but I am still angry to be stuck here making my mom miserable on her birthday while my family plays cards and feasts on smoked oysters, artichoke hearts, cheese and crackers. I am even angry I will not have to eat pickled herring. 

Thank God for beer and its numbing powers. Although, that soon will be a memory as well. But as my dad mentioned that my liver probably could use the break. 

I am on the second-floor balcony of the barracks, beer in hand, belting out Christmas carols off-key during a poor attempt at a holiday party, when my Christmas present walks up.

“I’m looking for Jen Deselms. Anyone know her?”

“I’m Jen.”

I don’t recognize him immediately. It has been more than a decade. We were just kids. 

But then I am running down the stairs. Can’t help myself. I jump on this now-grown man and hug him. 

I have no doubt it surprised him. Hell, it surprised me. 

I moved in across the street from Mike as a sixth-grader. We didn’t stay long. We never do. But our moms were close and stayed in touch. Mike and I were never that kind of close. Age, circumstance and interests didn’t lend themselves to it. He was a grade behind me and attended Catholic school, unlike the other neighborhood kids. He was on the cutting edge of video gaming. I was on the dying edge of outdoor games – war ball, kick the can and capture the flag. He was a boy and I was a girl, or at least trying to act like one part of the time.

We had a sparring relationship. He teased. I mocked. Sometimes I watched his younger sisters even when he was home to prevent squabbles and household destruction. Even so, there was damage to a trundle bed from excessive jumping. I don’t think I was directly involved, but memory is a funny thing. Either way, I wasn’t great supervision.

His family’s gerbil died on my watch during their family vacation. I was so freaked out by its still body that I locked the keys in the house. They were good about it. The dog survived. 

Mike taunted me the summer I was laid up with a nasty foot infection. I vowed revenge and marched to his yard as soon as I was well, wrestling him to the ground. I tell myself I was the victor, but I’m not sure.

I am sure that was the only time we embraced in any way ­-- until he appeared under the balcony and I tried to break him in half with a hug. 

I had known that he was somewhere among the thousands at Fort Riley because Mom had told me on one of my phone calls. His mom obviously had done the same. 

I didn’t seek him out. I didn’t figure he would want to see someone he hadn’t talked to in more than a decade. He was smarter. He was braver. 

And I had been wrong. Oh, so wrong.

We drank beer. We laughed. We shared memories of the old neighborhood. We talked about our families. We didn’t talk about the coming war. We didn’t talk about fears or feelings. I got drunk. I assume he did as well. Everyone in the barracks was working on a hangover that night. Mike headed out as the drinking slowed. I haven’t seen him since. 

After more than 30 years, the details of the conversation that night are even fuzzier than they were the next morning. The feeling from that familiar face in an unfamiliar place remains clear.

He will always be my best gift on my loneliest Christmas.

Aug. 20  Old lady surf report: Lots of shortboarders crushing it today and one old lady occasionally getting crushed. Paddled out to the end of the pier four times before catching the elusive wave of the day all the way to shore. Did I look good?  Only to the newbie gal who asked me for some paddling out tips, but the ride felt good other than my typically slow pop up. Have water in most body orifices from being shot out of a cannon of water. Now putting beer in one of my body orifices.  

July 11  Old lady surf report: surf session cut short by nearly irresistible urge to puke. Shouldn’t have gone to the fish fry before paddling out. Also was thwarted by messy waves and a nagging thumb injury that wasn’t up to the conditions today. Still grabbed several ugly rides with slow pop-ups. No style points awarded today. Stopped before I could make my thumb worse. Best thing: Found a new used shirt to add to my wardrobe. If only I could get someone to drop some scrubs on the beach.

May 31  Old lady surf report Jersey edition: Jersey shore is for the young, the spry, the shortboarders, those with great pop ups. I do not fit those categories. Tate had some success. Andersen caught some with assistance and had a nice one on his belly and a collection of righteous wipeouts. I also had some epic wipeouts. I caught a couple but horrible pop ups led to rides on knees or doggy style. And it was cold. Really cold. My blubber didn’t do much. Nearly broke the water heater upon my return.

May 13  Old lady surf report: Water was a clear dark green with little mounds just big enough for some fun rides. Was joined by several on my fellow gray hairs about midway through my session. Glad they joined me because I spotted a fin in the water twice this afternoon and couldn’t be sure what it was (always tell myself dolphin). Had I been alone I might have paddled in, but in a group I stayed still my fingers turned to prunes. Izzy now happy with a ball and I now happy with a brew. All is right with the world.  March 16  Old lady surf report: Today’s surf induced reflux is sponsored by several cups of chocolate raspberry coffee, Honey Nut Cheerios and a black-eyed pea concoction with some sort of tasty meat. Surf was slow and mushy but rideable. For the first time in several years I hit myself in the face with my board. Missed by eye by a fraction of an inch but I see no lasting damage to my right cheekbone. It is a bit tender. Got tangled up with a fisherman who seemed at least pleasant about nearly reeling in the giant jenfish.  

Dec 23, 2020  Old lady surf report. Great morning surf session. Totally needed some attitude adjustment and the company of my usual surf buddy. On my first ride I nabbed a fisherman’s line at my waist but managed to grab it and fling it over my head and keep on cruising. Felt like a rock star. On a paddle out toward the end of the session some tourists cheered us on. Felt like a rock star again. But as usual I also took a bunch of water up the nose. And as for the water temps: it is getting a bit chilly. But as the worker from the local surf shop told me in the lineup — they’ve got a new shipment of suits in. Got to love a guy who is on the job even in the water.  Dec. 13, 2020  Old lady surf report. My timing today was impeccable thanks to a message from a Nebraska businesswoman who planned to call me at 1600. That was the cattle prod I needed to get moving. The surf was rolling with a huge crowd hooting and howling as they surfed on the south side of the pier. But the north side was nearly as fine with only three surfers during most of the hour I was there. First wave was a nice drop in and it formed and reformed all the way in. I had one more glorious ride later during which I felt like my board was dancing up and down the face forever. Did it look as good as it felt? Probably not. The other rides were nothing special. Got shot out of a water cannon a couple of times, ripped off my board and somersaulted. Left shortly after the sky turned a deep blue gray, the water an eerie green and the wind howled more than the surfers.

Nov. 22, 2020  This old lady surf report is brought to you by magnificent white beard whose presence made me get in the water this morning. I wasn’t really feeling it when I was up before dawn to stroll with the dog. Waves didn’t look great and air was cool, but then I saw him stretching on the sand. Took the dog home. By the time I returned, he was packing up and I paddled out alone. As I sat on my board, a dolphin’s fin appeared. Seconds later another jumped as it surfed a wave. I had some cool rides, got a nice sinus wash and watched pelicans dive bomb for breakfast before a wave of surfers joined the lineup. Thanks for the gift, white beard. May your chin mane continue to wave in the morning breeze.

Nov 19, 2020  Old lady surf report: The Texas Coast means 80 degree air temps in mid-November and the truck next to you may have a cowboy hat on the dash and a surfboard hanging out of the bed. Nice waves this evening but sunset session was less than pleasant because of three large tacos and a side of rice and beans consumed at lunch. Decision resulted in more belching than a third-grade boy in the cafeteria and burning epigastric/chest pain. I know better. But the waves looked tasty and so did the tacos.

Nov 7 Old Lady Surf Report   Yesterday I surfed with noodle arms and barely caught a thing. Today I was better. Caught more bigger and better. Pop up still sucks but had a couple rides all the way to shore and enough gas in my tank  to paddle out four times. And I learned once again how small my town is. A man I don’t know said he had seen me in the water several times and then told me exactly where I live. He lives about a block away.

Oct 28, 2020  Old lady surf report. When I woke to 47 degree temps, wind, fog and mist I couldn’t imagine that I would get the motivation to surf today. But a hurricane swell in the gulf does strange things. Temp got up to 66 with sun near end of the day and that helped. Broke out the wetsuit and luckily still can get in it. But I likely could have gone without it. Waves were awesome and I beat the working crowd which showed up about 530. I also rescued my new used beach shoes from the yard and the jaws of Izzy so they could make the beach trip. Izzy thinks I am a butthead.

Aug 26, 2020  Old lady surf report extra: Unexpected day off. Managed to paddle out to end of pier or beyond four times which was a feat in itself for an old lady. Got pummeled, crushed, shot from a cannon and thrashed. Every wave was either a face plant disaster or a take or be taken ride. Good news is that no old ladies were harmed in the making of this report. The bad news is that farther up the Texas/Louisiana coast disaster looms. My heart hurts for them. It is ugly, devastating and the work continues long after the news cycle ends.

Aug 26, 2020  Old lady surf report addendum. Omg. A dolphin. Huge. Just after I paddled out. The first time it leapt I almost missed it, but then it leaped two more times,  body completely out of the water and closer each time before disappearing. Session was otherwise not impressive, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s what you see not what you do. Only regret is that I was surfing south side alone so there was no one to marvel in the moment with me. 

November 11. Old Lady Surf Report: Fall is officially here. Lifeguard stands and crowds have been removed from the beach. Morning crowds are all of us AARP types and their dogs. Surfed alone in lame conditions but the temperature, both air and water, was glorious. Izzy and I took a stroll in late afternoon where she encountered a creature crabbier than me. We said hello to several Winter visitors along our route, including a man with Nebraska plates who said he was from Louisville, one of the million places I lived as a kid. Izzy and I have returned to the deck so she can resume her neighborhood watch duties.

November 7.  Today’s Old Lady Surf Report is brought to you by sunny skies, 70 degree temps, time change late sleepers, Cowboy fans staying home for the game and a charge nurse who gave me a heads up to slow my roll and delay the start of my work day. Surf was far better than the photo indicates. The breeze was so light that it didn’t affect wave form and there was enough water power for a few OK rides and a sinus wash. 

November 5.  Old lady surf report: Air temp 64 degrees. Water temp maybe 10 degrees warmer. Worst part was walking back to car. Nice little waves with a touch of power. Spotted a dolphin and lots of pelicans this afternoon. Izzy gamely investigated several dead things on the beach and I spent part of the evening at my first Port Aransas high school basketball game. Seeing them take down the big city team was an added bonus. Really impressed by community support, especially this morning’s send off for the state-bound cross country team. Sounded like a four-alarm fire from inside my house as the team bus was escorted out of town. 

October 31.  Sunny, still day and the surf forecast blew so Izzy and I strolled to the other side of the island to see the impressive array of wooden boats. Watched some of the family boat builders try to finish their three-day build-a-boat projects and saw the successful launch of the one project completed in time for the 2 p.m. scheduled Champagne launch. Stopped off at the VFW where the beer is so cheap I can tip 100 percent and the deck is always empty. Good day so far. 

JoAnn Sanderson was born in Iowa, received a Masters degree in English Education at Southern Illinois University, and taught many years in Illinois public schools.  After she retired, she researched possible places to re-locate and made the wise decision to move to Corpus Christi, Texas.  Recently she became interested in writing very short stories (flash fiction/micro-fiction). 

Friends, relatives, and acquaintances thought Maria was a clever lady. She enjoyed devising techniques to keep the romance alive in her relationships. She told them, “A man likes fantasy and intrigue, so I find ways to keep him interested. Variety is the spice of life, they say.” She called one of the techniques she used, “the greeting.” Each time he arrived, she would use it.

Although he had told her that he would arrive from work at 6:00 p.m., she greeted him, “Sam, I thought you wouldn’t be here tonight.” And he replied, “Here I am, Maria, back from the construction site—straight from the scaffolding into your arms.” And then he lightly pulled on her right earring.

But the next night he walked through the door, she said, “Alex, I thought you wouldn’t be here until next week. But here you are.” Responding to her cue, he replied, “I took some time off from the electronic shop to check your connections.” And then he poured her a glass of wine and helped her set the table for dinner.

Perhaps if he came home after hiking with his buddies, she would greet him, “Raul, I thought you would still be out in the wilderness camping.” And he would respond, “Yup, I followed the trail which led me straight to you.” Then she would bring out oils to soothe his aching muscles.

One night he was Dr. Clark, home to check her vitals. Another night, he was homeless Derek, looking for a warm place to spend the night. Tomorrow, she decided he would be Hugh, a wild game hunter who had just returned from a safari in Kenya.

But when tomorrow came, the expected Hugh did not appear to be greeted. She paced the floor, checked her messages, and busied herself with household chores, waiting for him to appear at her doorstep. But he didn’t. She waited the next night, and still he did not appear.

In the morning she began wondering how she should proceed. After considering all her options, she decided, “I think it’s time to extend another invitation. I need someone new and different.” She went to the living room, walked to the black cylinder on an end table and pushed the button. “Alexa, send me another one. This time I’ll take a stockbroker from Manhattan, about six feet tall, blonde hair, maybe about thirty-five years old.”

She took a shower, went to her closet, and set aside a pale blue cashmere sweater, black designer jeans, and Gucci boots. The stockbroker arrived in the evening. How she loved the same-day delivery service!

Yes, she knew how to keep romance alive in her relationships—each and every one of them. 

Read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2020 

George McDougal was seated on a brown leather chair talking to his friend, Sammy Lomax, seated on a comfortable recliner on his right. “Sammy,” George asked, “Have you ever noticed the wood panel above my fireplace? That’s Aesop’s adage, 'A man is known by the company he keeps' carved into the panel. My parents gave it to me thirty years ago when I was going through the typical rebellious, existential-angst stage during my teenage years. I’m sure my parents gave it to me to teach me a character building moral lesson.

"I admit that some of the members of my company are not worth the trouble they cause me. Maybe, I thought, it was time to make some cuts. I made a list of my companions’ behaviors, both those whom I consider beneficial to my general welfare and those whom I consider liabilities. I set out to evaluate whose companionship I should encourage and whose I should avoid. I put the company I keep in pairs to show the contrasting behaviors they exhibit. I call them my dueling duos. 

"Take Juán, for instance. He recently bought a $225 pair of athletic shoes which he wears only to walk from the parking lot to and through Al’s Athletic Attire. Aaron, on the other hand, walks three miles a day in dilapidated sneakers held together with duct tape.

"Then there’s Sean. He eats small portions of nutritious food recommended in each category of the USDA’s food pyramid. But Abdullah heaps his plate at Pete’s Pyramid of Food Cafeteria and sneaks extra desserts in a voluminous tote bag he carries for these binges.

Bean-counting Isaac monitors his investment portfolio, bank accounts, and credit card balances daily. David wakes up on the morning of April 14th each year feeling the breath of his nemesis, the IRS, breathing down his neck. 

"Suave Jeremy speaks articulately and listens respectfully to others. However, Pundit Patricia considers conversations as opportunities to deliver lengthy monologues about her pet chihuahuas, the state of the union, and the rudeness and lack of responsibility shown by children born after 1959.

"Let’s not forget Let’s-Go-Green Ralph. He extols the merits of conserving our natural resources and reducing consumer consumption while Celeste uses the recycle bin to store leftover kitchen tiles and old tee shirts shredded into rags.

"Add to the list, Eugene. He furnishes his home in the minimalist style of a Buddhist meditation retreat and cringes when he visits Diego who fills his home with fifty fishing rods, bookshelves stuffed with DOS operating manuals, and high school football trophies.

"These are a mere sampling of my companions and their behaviors. They whisper to, shout at, advise, compliment, and reprimand each other and sometimes, me! But, you know, Sammy, I realized all these comrades are endearing, and I don’t want to cut any of them out of my life. Of course, some of them need to be kept at bay at times. But cut them off completely? No!

"When I went to my weekly appointment with my shrink, I told him about my evaluations and my conclusion. I thought at first that he was impressed with my analysis. But all he said was, ‘George, I think we’re making some progress, but I’d like to increase the dosage of your meds for awhile.’

"Frankly, Sammy, I think my shrink needs one of his own. I’m onto his game. He wants me needy and lonely so he can add anti-depressants to my pharmaceutical arsenal.”

George looked toward the empty recliner on his right and asked, “So what do you think about my evaluations and conclusions, Sammy? Pretty spot on, don’t you think?”

Joshua Espitia is an award-winning author of short fiction, playwright, journalist, and former managing editor of The Windward Review. You can find his political commentary, satire, and God-awful attempts at comedy in The Vent Daily on a semi-regular basis. His poetry can be found on the digital journals South Broadway Ghost Society and Spank the Carp, and in the upcoming issues of Voices Arts and Literature Journal and The Windward Review. Joshua resides in Corpus Christi, Texas, where he works as an educator with the Corpus Christi Museum of Science and History.

Please insert or swipe your card.

Wait that breathless few seconds

for approval or denial, validation

of your financial well-being, your

fiscal responsibility, an adulthood

confirmed by your ability to buy

this fancy loaf of San Francisco

sourdough instead of plain, white

Wonder Bread for that sandwich

waiting to be built in the kitchen

of the efficiency you worked so

hard to afford-

Transaction declined.

Oh, well.

The buck eighteen in loose change

jingling around in your jean pocket

will buy store-brand sandwich bread.

And the rent isn’t due until Tuesday. 

Read more like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

Jill Hand is an award-winning fantasy writer. Her novels include White Oaks, Rosina and the Travel Agency, and The Blue Horse. Follow her: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B06Y4K5JWC?fbclid=IwAR0LkfrwNwKqlHAxuFF6WU6fLAifZrc3itMhE4AZ47nnzwMDt6CcHycqht8

One Thanksgiving my mother made a turkey out of Spam. I'm not sure why she did it; she could have gone to Hinck's and bought a freshly killed turkey the way she always did, but instead she chose to craft one out of multiple cans of Spam. She may have gotten the idea from one of the women's magazines that flourished at the time.They had all kinds of weird recipes back then, things involving aspic and fondue and marshmallows stuck together to form snowmen with chocolate chips for eyes and licorice whips for scarves. It was food as art rather than things intended to be eaten, and my mother was an amateur artist, the daughter of a portrait painter and a clothing designer. Art in the blood, as Sherlock Holmes noted, is liable to take the strangest form. In Mom's case it took the form of crafts, crocheted ponchos and macrame plant-holders and quilts and upholstery and once, notably, a Spam turkey. While it looked uncannily like a roast turkey, carved drumsticks and all, it tasted like Spam, which wasn't what the rest of us wanted for Thanksgiving dinner. There was an angry scene, with tears and recriminations and then we all went to a restaurant. It has since become one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!   

 H.P. Lovecraft goes to the paint department at Home Depot and tells a sales associate that he needs some paint.
Sales associate: “Interior or exterior?”
Lovecraft: “It is for a room.”
Sales associate: “Interior, then. What size room?”
Lovecraft turns pale. “I…I feared you’d ask that question. It is impossible to ascertain the hideous, blasphemous dimensions of that hellish room.” Weeps uncontrollably.
Sales associate: “That’s okay. Just give me a rough idea. Is it a big room?”
Lovecraft shudders. “Sometimes it is. At other times it is very, very small. The geometry of that room is wrong. Wrong, sir, I say! The walls meet in impossible angles. They mock me. I fear I shall lose what little sanity I have left.”
Sales associate: “Okay, you can start with one gallon. If you need more, come back.”
Lovecraft: “You are kind, sir. I shall purchase this gallon of paint.”
Sales associate: “What color?”
Lovecraft: “A color that is indescribable, that cannot be named, except to say that it springs from the ancient evil that is…”
Sales associate: “It’s time for my break. Zar-thun, Strider Through the Abyss, can help you. He’s finishing up in wall coverings. I’ll send him over.”

Facebook thread started by Jill Hand, with comment from Mary Holland.

JILL HAND: While working on the new book I think about books that don't exist but I I wish that someone had written. Here are two:
-- Michael Makes a Friend (For ages 8 and up) Michael is lonely until he accidentally summons the demon Askanzel. Together they have many adventures as Michael mercilessly slays his enemies with Askanzel's help.
-- Christmas at Holly Berry Farm (Romance) Shy Jennifer Pollard leaves her job as a paralegal at a New York law firm to take over her Aunt Daisy's New Hampshire book store. She meets Sheriff David Clifford, a handsome widower, and together they embark on an exciting project: producing exceptionally pure methamphetamine for the grateful citizens of Cobbs Corners. 

MARY HOLLAND:I’d like a book where the old grandmother turns out to be the Chosen One. She and the dragon run off together, open a coffee shop, and live happily ever after. No one saves the world but meh, who cares. 

Chapter 1: The Road Rocket

Three days before the murder a lemon yellow Lamborghini Aventador SuperVeloce swung into the parking lot of Buzzy’s General Store in Cobbs, Georgia, at fifty miles per hour, trailed by a plume of blood-red dust. Crows perched in the loblolly pines cawed in panic and took wing, startled by the throaty shriek from the exhaust and intake at 4,000 rpms.

The car slewed sideways as the driver fought for control. For a moment it appeared it might keep on sliding until it smashed into the police cruiser parked in front. Sun glare on the windscreen made it impossible to see who was behind the wheel. Whoever it was drove like a madman. What sort of emergency could have occasioned such haste?

The Lamborghini lurched to a stop a scant three feet shy of T-boning the cruiser. A fan of gravel kicked up by the big Gallardo tires clattered against the side of the cruiser with a sound like shrapnel hitting a tin roof.

The store’s screen door flew open and smacked against the ice machine, which was situated too close to the front door when it was installed, back in 1983. Gordon Buzzy had considered moving it, but he died before he could get around to it. His son, Gordon Jr., inheritor of his father’s kingdom, which amounted to the decrepit general store and the living quarters behind it, likewise thought of moving it a little farther to the right.

It goes without saying, Gordon Buzzy, Jr., not exactly being a coiled spring of industriousness, that he too would die without moving the ice machine, as would his son and his son, and so on, until either Buzzy’s went out of business or the world came to an end, whichever came first.

Boyce County Sheriff’s Deputy Ewell Haskins emerged onto the wooden porch, primed for action. In his left hand was a partially consumed moon pie. With his right he unsnapped the leather guard over the Smith & Wesson M&P .40 in his service holster. The screen door thwacked shut behind him. Above it a hand-lettered sign warned anyone having the effrontery to take the Lord’s name in vain not to expect a warm welcome at Buzzy’s, where bait, tackle, beer and sundries could be purchased between the hours of 7 a.m. and 6 p.m. every day except Sundays and major holidays.

Haskins stood open-mouthed, staring at the yellow roadster.

It looked like something from a future century, at once sleek and angular. “Hot damn,” he whispered, spying the orange and black New York license plate. A Yankee! Driving recklessly! Perhaps the Yankee speed demon was under the influence of drugs. From what Haskins understood, a large percentage of the Yankee population customarily went around hopped up to the eyeballs. If such was the case he would soon be a very sorry Yankee indeed.              

Haskins licked his lips like a dog smelling steak. The deputy still felt the sting of the conflict that a certain type of white Southerner refers to as the War of Northern Aggression. Arresting a rich Yankee who was endangering the citizens of Cobbs by ramming the roads in what amounted to a deluxe hot rod would soothe that sting considerably. It might also put Haskins in line to become the next sheriff, when the current sheriff either retired or dropped dead of the heart attack that must surely be coming to a man who weighed close to four hundred pounds and who stuffed his face with fried chicken like it was about to be banned by the FDA. Haskins rolled his eyes heavenward and offered a silent prayer to the almighty to please bring about a vacancy for the position of sheriff as swiftly as was convenient. Thank you and Amen.

Haskins squinted at the mysterious vehicle through a shimmer of heat. It was such a bright yellow it made his eyeballs throb. Who’d want a car that gaudy color? Cars should be black, white, gray, or blue, in that order. It was permissible for pickup trucks to be red; that signified a certain self-confident, assertive masculinity, but red sports cars were looking for trouble, their drivers just begging to be given a speeding ticket. A yellow road rocket like this one was utterly and flagrantly wrong, to Haskins’ way of thinking.

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