What I find attractive about tumblr is being able to share more than a few words. Today I’ll give that a try with a bite from my latest WIP. Contemporary romantic suspense - mainstream. **not proofed or edited but pretty damn close**
John O’Bannon ran his thumb across the worn surface of his old Zippo lighter, flipped the top up, then snapped the top back down. He placed the lighter, the last relic of a habit he’d kicked shortly after becoming a single parent, on the scratched Formica tabletop and gave it a spin. After that, he pulled a napkin from its matte black dispenser and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. No matter how lightweight the jacket covering his .38 tucked in the small of his back was, August in Mississippi was not the time to be wearing anything more than a lightweight shirt.
Snippets of conversation drifted up from four old men sitting around a table at the back of the Cat Bucket, a Vicksburg, Mississippi eatery frequented by the locals that specialized in fresh-caught catfish. He watched while a busboy cleared tables and wondered idly how long the line was at Portillos on West Ontario in Chicago. A frank and a beer was more his speed.
The Cat Bucket sat on a small knoll overlooking the Mississippi and had been around since the War. No need to ask which war; there was only one when it came to the South.
An hour earlier he’d taken Warrenton road, the main blacktop that followed the river south of Vicksburg; right on the gravel road by the cider stand, west to the “old hangin’ tree,” where he’d parked his pickup in a dusty gravel lot that filled the expanse between the restaurant and the river’s muddy bank.
The day had been one of those days found only in Tennessee William’s stories or along the banks of the lazy Mississippi. One of those days when the muddy water of the wandering old man ran dark, flat, and featureless like molasses.
The August sun had been relentless, the oppressive heat stifling, the humidity smothering. And days like today always preceded nights like this one in the Mississippi delta. A night not unlike the one when Robert Johnson, the great American blues singer and musician, standing at an isolated crossroads near Dockery Plantation about a hundred miles away, had handed more than his guitar over to the Devil.
Broad ceiling fans looped lethargically with small tufts of lint and dust clinging to the patina of grease that covered their wooden paddles. From the hands of the old Seth Thomas school clock above the front entrance, he could see that Miss Lee, the woman that called to make an appointment with him, might be a no-show. Not unheard of in his current line of business, but not welcome either.
Left to himself in the shabby booth, his thoughts swimming in the heavy night air that filled the aged clapboard construction, he watched June bugs and other night critters bounce off the ratty screen door of the dilapidated old restaurant.
As an author I always found twitter rather limited so I’ve come to tumblr. I’ll be posting excerpts and updates on wips in progress. Nice to meet everyone. Now all we need is a tumblr deck. I do enjoy the way tweetdeck organizes follows and posts.