- Silver James | @SilverJames_
- Mark Ethridge | @mysoulstears
- Bill Engleson | @billmelaterplea
- Sheilagh Lee | @SweetSheil
- Mark A. Morris
- Siobhan Muir | @SiobhanMuir
- Kelly Heinen | @Aightball
- Ruth Long | @Bullishink
- Siren X Star | @sirenstar
- Isabel Buell
Silver James | @SilverJames_
Cara says: #TeamSmoke takes a hit in this emotional snippet, and clearly I’m a glutton for punishment, because I love it. Leigh’s uncertainty is heart wrenching, but I can’t help thinking Smoke is going to help her come around.
Ruth Long | @Bullishink
Cara says: The banter in this snippet made me smile. Especially the reassurance to Clyde the Gelding, lol. Remy is clearly a force to be reckoned with, and her cowboy rescuer seems the perfect match with his quirky calm.
Bill Engleson | @billmelaterplea
Cara says: The story builds tension around the narrator’s questionable understanding of his environment and situation. With his only clear memory being a scene from Psycho, you can’t help wonder what happened to him. Drugs? Alcohol? An accident? The reveal of a truly heartbreaking accident is given in brutal counterpoint between the main cop’s growing anger and the narrator’s slipping hold on reality.
This morning, the morning I wake up in my car, on the outskirts of town, down where the Kalahanie River bends away from Oxbridge and heads west down to the sea, a sea ever rising and swallowing the land, this morning, I begin anew.
I have no choice.
My life before me has fled my sorrowful brain, my depleted heart.
“So, buddy, whaddoyagottasayforyourself?”
He’s leaning into my window, uniformed, a man of the law.
I do remember one thing. Psycho…the actor, Mort Mills, leaning in, haranguing Marion Crane.
Why would I remember that when everything else no longer exists?
Would most people call that a scowl? That’s what it is. Huh…a scowl.
He reaches in with his left hand and shakes my shoulder just a mite; his right hand I can see is resting on his weapon, holstered, at the ready.
“Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? Yougottaatongueuseit!”
The scowl…deepens. Becomes…more scowly. I almost understand him but there are competing echoes, a ringing, that’s what they say, a ringing in my ears.
He is angry with me. The scowl, the unpleasant glare.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” I think this, I think. I want to say it. I do not understand what he wants from me.
Someone else approaches from the passenger side, opens the door, leans in, says, “Whaddawegothere,Sam?”
They talk as if I am not here.
I am not here.
I am heading down to the sea, the sea.
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