So we start a brand new year, Happy belated New Year everyone!
I’m racing around trying desperately to suppress all the other characters; mainly Mattie and Graham in book 2 in the No Death for the Wicked series and Selene and Sirius in book 2 in the Veil Realms series. I’m still trying to flush out the nitty-gritty details on the side as I focus completely on my current WIP. Let Your Heart Drive finally has an official cover thanks to a public vote of two to one. I really struggled with this simply because I already purchased and designed this cover over a year ago, but as I was strolling one day through the stock footage on Shutterstock I fell in love with another cover pic I recently posted. It spoke volumes to me and it matched the vision of Sinead I have of her perfectly. The book is about one girl’s journey and her silent struggles through life, through her own personal issues and her breaking free to possibly find love again. I debated with my husband over which cover to use and eventually I posted the dilemma on Facebook and the voting began.
So here’s the cover….
Since we have that cleared, I can move on and announce that I will start posting a small continuation for The House. Let’s just say this is a peek at what’s to come for the second part sequel.
Copyright © 2015 Karli Rush
Deadwood Diner – part 1
Words have no power to impress the mind
Without the exquisite horror of their reality.
- Edgar Allen Poe
I step off the Greyhound bus and the moment my black military issued boots hit the ground, I breathe in the late autumn air. I roll my stiff shoulders back and rub out the cramped soreness from my aching neck, fifteen months in Iraq and I’m finally just an hour and a half away from home. Back, from my extensive journey, my latest military stint and it’s almost hard to believe. It’s too good to be true that I can actually feel the good ol’ country like I did back when I was younger, before I enlisted and now, I need this break. I’ve dedicated everything to my one ambitious goal, and raised my rank to Sergeant first class with ten years of hard ballbusting work. Deployed more times than I can even count and now, it’s time to relax.
Joining the Army was something I’d set my ever-lovin’ sights on since I was a boy. My grandfather and my father were both die-hard U.S. Army soldiers, and they both strictly ingrained in me ‘Be All You Can Be’ from day one. Living in a town like Waynesville, there’s not a whole lot of options, for anyone really, nearest college is, here, in Deadwood. Random managed gas stations and remodeled churches sprout up more or less on every block. I never saw myself growin’ up to be someone wiping windshields and pumping gas as a lifelong career, and I certainly never thought I’d walk a saintly path to wear the fine untarnished shoes of a preacher. At one point in my high school years I had thought long and hard about going to college here, like so many others, but like I said, to serve my country was deep-seated in me, in my soul well before I could even utter the words ‘Affirmative’.
I swing my Army green duffel bag over my right shoulder and take in the old timey diner. A few cars scatter here and there along the dimly lit parking lot. A bright neon green sign hangs bravely and boldly outside –Open— inviting anyone and everyone inside. I’m expecting a buddy of mine to meet me here tonight. I’ll hitch a ride with him to Waynesville. Funny how a hometown can give you the comforts of family, friends, and familiarity. But, in this small town there is no familiarity, it’s always felt like that song by the Eagles, ‘You can check out any time you like—but, you can never leave…’ My eyes graze over the red faded pickup and unfamiliar cars I realize my buddy is not here. Not yet, anyway.
Traveling down here on the back of the bus, I watched and took note of the town signs that would pass by, reading the population stats on each one. But this town, Deadwood, didn’t have a population status. I glance around and straighten the cap on my head debating. I sure could use a bite to eat, maybe, just maybe, the food here doesn’t taste anything like Army grub. I find myself striding quickly toward the diner, my stomach grumbling, knowing soon, it’s fixin to sample some good ol’ home-cooking. A homey robust smell of deep-fried foods and handmade pies breathes about as I near the doors. Above the brilliant neon green sign flickers eerily the name of the diner. The words Ma and Pa’s looks burnt out and shadowed by the rustic metal overhang. Almost like someone wanted to hide it.
An elderly man carrying a red and white checkered take-out bag hums by me, he throws a wordless nod my way and I return the gesture. I hold the door making sure no one else is accompanying him. His demeanor has me at ease with the place, light on his feet and grinning like he’s carrying the next winning lottery ticket. Makes me want to tell the waitress ‘I’ll have whatever he’s having’ and motion toward him. I take a seat at a vintage styled barstool.
“What will it be, sugar?” the waitress asks shoving a pair of black horned rimmed glasses along the bridge of her narrow nose. She matches the theme of the diner with her pinned up hairdo and old-school bold red lips.
“I’ll take a cup of coffee, ma’am,” I reply receiving the one page menu from her.
“Comin’ right up,” she spouts with a flirty smile and spins off in the other direction. The rise of lively chatter hovers in the midst of the late-night patrons, it isn’t bothersome, a laugh or a turn from a newspaper now and again. The sun has been down for hours now, and I get the feeling that most of these people in here are regulars. A weighty middle-aged man sits at the far end of the counter his judging eyes meet mine, he shifts his view to his plate like I would walk over and abduct his nightly addiction. I drift my own eyes easily away when I hear the jukebox on the other side start to play.
“You like Creedence Clearwater Revival?” a man, in a pair of dingy overalls sitting beside me asks. He scratches at the graying whiskers camouflaging his thin mouth, the fork drops from his hand as he pushes his empty plate away.
“I’ve heard a few of their songs,” I reply mildly, withholding my own childhood memories for my dad’s love of CCR. Listening to their songs repetitively one learns a few songs by heart naturally. But one song I knew to leave him alone was ‘Bridge Over Trouble Water’ by Simon and Garfunkel, never knew what stirred the multitude of emotions in him whenever that particular song played because he wasn’t the type of man to show emotions. I drift off to the memory peering around the corner of the crinkly wallpapered dining room, a bottle of booze sitting on the table as the vinyl seventy-eight record spins on the turntable. Being so young at the time I had no grasp on the lyrics, what they meant, why he listened to it, or what meaning behind it had held for him. I snap out of my past and glance over to the guy in the overalls as he taps the counter with his calloused large hands.
“This song here…” He thumbs toward the old jukebox and says, “…was her song, my wife’s name was Mary Lou. She could cook the best daggum pecan pies, I swear!” He slaps the palm of his hand down and grins the biggest grin.
“It’s a good one,” I respond, watching amused with the look on his aging face. His bushy eyebrows scrunch together as his grin gets even bigger. He reminds me of the actor John Goodman, just older. And I catch the reference in tenses when he spoke of his wife. I don’t ask, it’s none of my business but it tells me why he’s here, eating at a late night diner, alone.
“So… what’s the special?” I ask pointing at the substandard budget menu. The perky waitress flips the coffee cup around and sits it upright on the tiny saucer and begins to pour my coffee.
“All of it’s good,” the man in overalls sitting next to me offers. He quirks his head to the side and adds, “Maybe not my Mary Lou’s but it’s worth its while.”
“All right then, I’ll have the cheeseburger, fries and a glass of ice water too.”
“You want the fixin’s?” the waitress quizzes while she jots down my order.
“You better save some room for our house special, Lemon meringue pie, ya hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hand her the tissue thin menu back and pick up my coffee cup. Testing it before I take a sip. It’s not scalding hot, but it’s damn sure strong. I cough a little, tryin’ to soothe the harsh stale taste down. I edge the coffee back to its saucer as she struts toward the kitchen area hollering out my order.
“Walk a cow through the garden, on a rail, and one on the city.” She clamps her ticket on the order wheel and winks back at me. And then she busies herself setting up another table across from us on the side of the counter.
“So, you home on leave or somethin’?” the man asks and drags his fingers around the wiry whiskers along his beardy mouth. He pulls his large sizeable hand out from underneath his other stout arm and extends it toward me. “Name’s Raymond Thomson, but everyone around here calls me, Ray.”
I grip his hand firmly with my right hand and find myself surprised when I realize his grip isn’t like steel. It’s a considerate handshake, not tryin’ to prove anything.
“Nice to meet you, Ray. I’m Jason Knight,” I give him a small salute and add, “I guess you could say I’m between duty stations right now.”
A noticeable twinkle in his mousy eyes shimmer like a new dawn’s day as he says, “How long you been in the Army?”
“I joined as soon as I graduated high school, so… it’s been about ten years. You know what they say, stick with what you love doing,” I explain as the gum-smackin’ waitress plops my plate of food in front of me.
“You needing anything else, sugar?”
I scratch the side of my temple and glance over the palatable food and shake my head. “No, ma’am, I think that’s it.” I peer up and inadvertently meet hers. They’re soft, but kinda drained like she’s had a few hard years workin’ over-time. With her out-of-date specs it conceals somewhat the heavy lines underneath her whiskey colored eyes. Matter of fact, no one in this diner looks inexperienced in life by any means.
“You have family here or close by?” Ray wrangles out as he fumbles with some change in the center of his oversize palm.
“I do, some cousins and an aunt up in Waynesville. I grew up there, so, it’s still home to me,” I remark adding a shake of salt to the home fries and dump a hefty glob of Heinz ketchup on them. He slides a dull simple quarter across the space between us and nods toward the silent jukebox.
“On me, it’s my small way of sayin’ thanks for you putting your life out there for the sake of our beautiful country.” He pats my upper arm like a gentle giant and the second I move my perplexed gaze from the coin, he shoves it inside my hand. Urging me to accept his offer. I hop off the barstool without a fuss and leave my plate, my stomach complaining with each boot pounding step. I reach the marbelized plastic jukebox and stand, reading the list of songs. I stare back over my shoulder strangely, he wasn’t kidding about likin’ CCR because there wasn’t one song listed that wasn’t sung by Creedence. I shrug and slip the quarter in and press the button for ‘Bad Moon Rising’.
I’m not sure why I picked it, I liked it well enough, and it was listed at the top. I guess I just wanted to appease the man so I could hurry the hell up and eat. He taps his brown clad foot in time with the beat and grins approvingly. The song only lasts for a couple of minutes and then two more songs roll out, two that I didn’t pick. ‘Run through the Jungle’ belts out right after ‘Hello Mary Lou’, I keep my eyes downward and focus on my burger.
“I bet you’ve seen your fair share of…” Ray starts to grumble out but his prying words drop away as soon as a young woman stumbles inside the diner.
To be continued…