Category: A Trilogy.
-
THE MOTEL ON THE ROOF — Part II: The Pilgrim’s Progress
“When families collide, all bets are off—especially after Jello shots and Ding Dongs.” The KOA sign rose out of the dusk like salvation in neon, buzzing faintly against a sky bruised with thunderheads. The Hollisters’ 1971 Ford Country Sedan had been dragging the Tote Motel Camper across Louisiana’s backroads all day, and the wagon was…
-
THE MOTEL ON THE ROOF — Part I: The Promise
“Every great holiday disaster starts with a promise… and a station wagon stacked too high.” Every Thanksgiving, families load up the car and head off in search of turkey, togetherness, and a little grace. The Hollisters of Fort Stockton aimed for all three. What they got instead was a cross-country odyssey in a wagon with…
-
THE MAN IN THE TURQUOISE LINCOLN, PART III: The Buick From Nowhere
The Buick appeared on the first Monday in May, as if summoned by bad decisions and worse timing. It wasn’t like the others. Not the turquoise Lincoln with its low, slow menace. Not the battered ’59 Ford Custom 300 that kept showing up where it wasn’t welcome. This was different. A 1960 Buick Invicta four-door…
-
THE MAN IN THE TURQUOISE LINCOLN, PART II: Men In The Ford
By late April, the town had stopped pretending this was all a coincidence. Strangers still came through Fort Stockton now and then—drillers, surveyors, insurance men—but not like this. Not in groups. Not all wearing the same bad shoes and the same worse haircuts. And not all orbiting around H.R. Cashe like he was the mayor,…
-
THE MAN IN THE TURQUOISE LINCOLN, PART I: Arrival With Intent
H.R. Cashe returned to Fort Stockton the way thunderstorms roll in from the Davis Mountains—slow at first, with a low rumble, then sudden enough to make the whole town pause mid-sentence. It was late February 1961, and the sun hung like an overripe peach over the courthouse square. The air smelled like mesquite and unfinished…
-
SIX FEET UNDER, Part III: Digging Up the Past
Cutter Bridges had only been in Fort Worth a few days when his uncle got the call. It wasn’t to prepare someone for burial this time—it was the opposite. They were to dig up the most infamous resident in the cemetery: Lee Harvey Oswald. At first, Cutter thought his uncle was pulling his leg. After…
-
SIX FEET UNDER, Part II: Dying for Direction
The summer sun hung heavy over Fort Stockton like it always did—burning through clouds, paint, and whatever plans Cutter Bridges thought he had for his life. He was eighteen, freshly graduated from Jim Bowie High School, where the mascot was a snarling Bowie knife and the football team had a better record than the school…
-
SIX FEET UNDER, PART I: A Chip Off the Old Slab
Cutter Bridges was the only boy in town whose childhood bedroom shared a ventilation system with a mortuary prep room. While other kids in Fort Stockton were arguing over who got next on the Atari or sneaking beers from their daddy’s truck cooler, Cutter was helping fold crepe streamers for casket displays and learning to…
-
SPECTATOR SEAT, Chapter 3
A CHANGE IN PLANS Eleanor had never considered herself the type, but here she was, smoothing the collar of her housecoat while checking the streetlight through a slat in the living room blinds. The lamp above the cul-de-sac buzzed faintly, illuminating the driveway of the split-level ranch she and Stanley had picked from the RoadRunner…
-
SPECTATOR SEAT, Chapter 2
FALL BREEZES AND CROSS RAM CONFESSIONS Eleanor Brewster had made three separate trips to Tumbleweed Dodge-Chrysler-Plymouth in as many days, each time hoping to catch Marvin Langley before he slipped out to lunch or back from one of his extended test drives. She’d timed her third attempt just right, parking behind the service bay in…