Resurrection Blues

We’re traveling once again, which has made it difficult to work on anything new, including posts for this blog. So, instead, I’m going to post the first chapter of my very first solo novel, Resurrection BluesYou can find the book here, and if you hurry, you can get a copy for FREE. I’m serious about moving quickly; the offer ends at midnight tonight. After that, you’ll have to pony up the full ebook price of $3.99.

I did a trailer for this book a few years back, before it became an Amazon exclusive. The trailer is available on YouTube. And, because I know it’s a hassle to look these things up, here’s the link:

Resurrection Blues

Chapter 1

“One good fire is the equivalent of three good moves.” –Wayne A. Langston

Trey opened his door to the first line of a joke: An Indian, a dwarf, and a biker walk into a bar… Except he didn’t own a bar, and this clearly wasn’t a joke.

“We’re lookin’ for Trey Bowman,” the Indian said.

“As in A. A. Bowman, the third,” added the biker.

Trey looked down at the dwarf, expecting her to add something. She didn’t. Instead, she stunned him with the sexiest smile he’d ever seen. He dragged his gaze from her face and quickly inspected the other two visitors. They appeared calm, and unarmed. Always a good sign. Still….

“He’s dead,” Trey said.

“Then, who the hell’re you?” asked the Indian, “And why are you in his house?”

“Who the hell are you, and why do you want to know?”

The biker looked less likeable than he had before, the morphing process moving him from possible miscreant to probable felon. “It’s important we find Trey Bowman. He’s not in any trouble. Leastwise, not with us, but if he’s dead we’ll need to see proof.”

“Like a grave?” Trey asked.

“More like a body,” said the Indian. “But a death certificate would probably do.”

The dwarf continued to smile, but the effect ceased to be sexy. It now seemed morbidly curious–the sort of smile reserved for really bad traffic accidents, or public executions.

“You didn’t answer my questions,” Trey said, shifting his foot slightly in order to get more of it wedged at the bottom of the door. “So, again: who are you, and why are you looking for Trey Bowman?”

“Augie sent us,” the tiny female said, her voice a delicious tinkling of fine crystal.

“Augie who?”

“Augie Bowman.”

He’s still alive?

“Yeah, but not for long. Doc says he’s only got a few days left.” The Indian looked down at a photo in his hand, then held it up to eye level and glanced back and forth between Trey’s face and the picture. “He sent us to find you.”

Trey squinted at him. “Okay, I’m Augustus Bowman.”

“The third,” said the biker by way of confirmation. “Your grampaw said you go by ‘Trey.’”

“I do, but he barely even knows me,” Trey said, twisting to see if he recognized himself in the photo. He hadn’t seen his grandfather in at least twenty years.

“Why don’t you call yourself ‘Augustus’ or ‘Augie’?” the biker asked. “Don’t you like your name?”

“I like Trey.”

“I expected someone more… I dunno, interesting,” said the Indian to the biker. “This guy’s a geek.”

“I am not a geek! I– I hate computers.”

“Relax, sweetie,” said the diminutive femme. “He’s not talkin’ about the kinda geek you’re thinkin’ of.” She looked up at her companions. “I think it’s him, but we’d better check his ID just to be sure.”

My ID? This is my house, for cryin’ out loud. I don’t have to produce an ID. You should be showing me yours.”

“I’m Warren Lightfoot,” said the Indian, pushing his arm between the door and the jamb. “You can call me Bud.” He gripped Trey’s hand firmly, shook it once, then let go.

“Bud. Right.” Trey looked at the biker.

“I’m Dago,” he said, keeping his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Of course you are,” Trey said, utterly clueless. He looked down. “And you must be….”

“The Virgin Mary,” she said with an absolutely straight face.

He tried to roll with it. “Would it be okay if I just called you ‘Mary’?”

“Sure,” she said, relighting her ten-thousand-watt smile. “I’m not really a virgin.”

“Good,” he said. “I mean, about your name. Not the, you know–”

“Time to go,” said Dago.

Oddly, Trey felt no threat from the bizarre trio. Something about them had the ring of truth, and he felt compelled to go with them. Besides, he’d already made a complete mess of his life, and he clearly had nothing better to do.

“You got a car?” Bud asked. “We’ve got a truck, but somebody’d have to ride in the back.”

“Not me!” Mary said. She pushed through the door and grabbed Trey’s hand. “You wouldn’t make a lady sit in the back of a truck, would ya?” She snuggled up to his thigh, and batted what he suddenly realized were absurdly long eyelashes.

“I’ve got a car,” he said. “I can follow you.”

Bud smiled for the first time. “Good, then let’s get movin.’”

“Waitaminute!” Trey said. “First things first. How long am I gonna be gone? Do I need to pack some clothes? Leave a forwarding address? Who’s gonna feed my parakeet?”

“Good Lord, he’s got a tweety,” said the Indian. “I told you he was a geek.”

“Bring the bird,” Mary said. “And throw some clothes in a bag. If you need more later, I’m sure we can find the hole and come back.”

‘Find the hole?’ What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

The biker stared at Mary as if he was contemplating dwarficide.

“It’s just an expression,” Bud said. “We’ll explain later.”

Trey looked down at Mary. “I don’t really have a parakeet.”

“I can get you one.”

“No. That’s cool. I don’t–”

“You like blue or yellow? Green, maybe? I think that’s all the colors they come in. But I can check it out.” She pulled him after her. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Trey hit the brakes. Mary may have been short, but she had full grown curves. “My bedroom?”

“Yeah. Unless you keep your clothes somewhere else.”

“Oh. Right. I thought–”

“You have a dirty mind, Trey.” She laughed, and somewhere a shelf full of exquisitely fragile glass toppled onto the floor. “Where’s your suitcase?”

He retrieved it from his closet, then paused long enough to look for Mary’s companions. “Where are–”


“While we’re–”

“In here. Packing.” On her tiptoes, she groped blindly in the top drawer of his dresser and withdrew a handful of briefs. “I figured you for boxers.” She threw them on the unmade bed, then continued foraging in his other drawers. T-shirts and socks followed the underwear and landed in a pile.

Trey stuffed his clothes into the travel bag as quickly as Mary launched them in his direction. “Jeans and sweatshirts are in the closet,” he said, but she had already discovered them. “Will I need a jacket?”

She paused to look at him, curiosity coloring her classic features. “I doubt it. Unless we’ve slipped into another dimension, this is still summer in Atlanta, isn’t it?”

“But I don’t know where we’re going!”

“West and north, but not far either way.”

“That’s comforting.”

“These are nice,” she said, throwing a pair of loafers at him. “Bring ’em.”

“Those are my formal sorta shoes. They’re a little tight.”

“Wear ’em for me, then.”

“Okay,” he said. “Listen, I’ll get the rest of that.”

“No, you won’t. We’re done. You got that stuff packed yet?”

Very little space remained in the valise. “Uh–”

“Don’t forget your hairdryer, razor, and toothbrush.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?”

“I’ve got six brothers,” she said. “Most of ’em are younger than me, but none of ’em know how to pack. It’s just not a guy-thing, y’know?”

He nodded. She was right. She was also leaving.

He zippered the case and hauled it out of the room as Mary walked out the front door. With none of his visitors in sight, Trey slipped into the little pantry in his kitchen and reached into the flour container where he kept his emergency fund–a roll of twenties he’d received in exchange for a motorcycle he couldn’t afford to keep running. The money was gone.

Trey looked up at a chuckle from just outside the pantry.

Bud held up his cash, still wrapped in a plastic bag. “Lookin’ for this?”


“You’d be surprised how many people hide their money like that,” he said, tossing it to him. “You oughta find a safer spot.”

“Like the freezer?”

“Nah. I’d have found it there, too.”

Trey felt violated. “Where, then?”

“I like banks,” he said. “You ready to go?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

They left.


Willard Calcraft had more attaboys and fewer friends than anyone else in the Internal Revenue’s regional office in Atlanta. Nicknamed “The Executioner” by some wag who discovered a similarly named 19th century English hangman, Will hadn’t actually killed anyone, though it was generally believed his unrelenting zeal for collecting back taxes had caused several clients to come after him.

His wife, Marjorie, had other reasons for wanting him dead. Foremost among them was a tax evader named Anastasia Jones whose profession required the strategic removal of her costume while dancing. Will had racked up some serious overtime on that case.

He had no idea Marjorie was contemplating his demise, but then few of her ideas had ever successfully garnered his attention. His inability to recognize problems of the domestic variety left him free to concentrate on his professional duties, such as the file in his hand.

A single sheet of paper occupied the folder. The name on the neatly typed file tab read: Bowman, Augustus A. The document contained the first clues in the kind of trail Willard Calcraft had followed often. He smiled in anticipation.

There was a “Bowman, Augustus A.” listed as the President of the Resurrection Holding Company, the address a rural route somewhere in Alabama. There was also a “Bowman, Augustus A.” listed as the pastor of the Resurrection Free Will Unitarian Universalist Mission. It bore the exact same rural route address as the Resurrection Holding Company. He loved it when tax cheats tried to hide behind religion and considered himself duly constituted to collect that which was due unto Caesar, but not necessarily because he had a thing for Caesar. A final entry showed the results of a search for a personal income tax return for the head of the two organizations: all blanks.

Will swiveled his chair around to face a wall map of his region, Alabama, and quickly browsed through a listing of all the municipalities therein. A couple of town names came close, but Resurrection was not to be found. He obtained the zip code for the rural route, located the area in the hilly terrain of the state’s rugged northern reaches and hunted for something that may have lent its name to both a trading company and a church. After twenty minutes of close scrutiny, he abandoned the map search without learning anything new. His curiosity growing, Will typed the vaguely Indian-sounding word “Resurrection” into his favorite internet search engine and aside from religious entries, came up empty once again.

Rather than antagonize his contacts so late in the day, Will decided to leave the mystery of Resurrection until the next morning. That would give him plenty of time to pay Anastasia a visit before he drove home. He cleared off his desk, made sure he had an ample supply of dollar bills in his pocket, and left.


Mary rode with Trey as they angled northwest away from Atlanta. She made herself comfortable on top of his travel bag. Trey tried not to stare at the harness strap of her seat belt which neatly bisected her breasts.

“They don’t make these damn things for little people,” she said. “Driving anything bigger than a bumper car is a real pain in the ass.”

“I’d be more sympathetic if I knew where we were going.”

“Resurrection, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed. He remembered the name, usually spoken under his mother’s breath and always referenced in the negative. According to her, Hell was a kinder, gentler alternative. “My mother told me some interesting stories about Resurrection. She wasn’t a big fan.”

“It’s not a place for everyone,” Mary said, “but I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

Have you lived anyplace else?”

She glanced at him with a slightly pained expression. “I’ve vacationed elsewhere. Or tried to. Vacation is over-rated. Frankly, I prefer stayin’ at home.” She pointed at Bud’s truck some distance ahead. “Don’t lose sight of them.”

He increased his speed. “What’s so special about Resurrection?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“I’ve got nothin’ but time.”

“It’s something you have to experience. The town isn’t much to look at. It’s more like your favorite jeans rather than your church clothes.”

“I’m not much of a church-goer,” Trey said. “None of my family was.”

“That’s not true. Augie lives next to the church. He’s a minister.”

Trey felt his eyebrows scrunch together. “Augie Bowman, a preacher? Maybe I’m not your guy after all. My grandfather was–”

Is. He’s not dead, yet.”

“–is a con artist. According to my mother. As I recall, she also called him a snake oil salesman and a carnival barker. There were some others, too, but those are the ones that stand out.”

Mary squinted at him. “Your Mom told you that?”


“Sure doesn’t sound like Augie. She must not have known him very well. Either that, or he’s changed. Drastically. The Boss is… The Boss! He’s probably one of the smartest men in the world.” Mary tried to cross her arms, but the combination of breasts and harness made it tricky. “I don’t mean ‘smart’ like brain surgeon smart. He’s smart in practical ways. He makes things work. He’s not only a minister–”

“What church would have him?”



“He’s also the banker.”

The banker?” Trey asked. “You make it sound like there’s only one.”

“That’s all we need.”

“A con artist owns the town’s only bank?” He chuckled. These people were deranged. His mother couldn’t have been that wrong about his grandfather, even if she did tend to be a tad over-reactive. “What a set up. He doesn’t even have to drive his little lambs to the shed. They line up to be fleeced all by themselves.”

“Are you this cynical about everything?”

He shook his head. “Only about cons, and I’ve gotta tell ya, that’s exactly what this feels like.”

She looked puzzled. “We’re not tryin’ to trick you.”

“Right,” he said, reaching into the glove box to extract a map. He tossed it in her lap. “Why don’t you show me where Resurrection is on that?”

She leaned forward and put the map back. “’Cause I can’t.”

“You can’t read a map?”

“I can’t show you where Resurrection is, ’cause it’s not on that map. It’s not on any map.”

“Because it doesn’t exist. It’s a scam.” He slowed the car and looked for a place to turn around.

“What are you doing?”

“Goin’ back,” he said. “I’ve got more important things to do than waste my time with lunatics.”

“Okay. But what about me? I don’t want to go to Atlanta. I wanna go home.”

“Fine,” he said, flashing his lights as he pulled off the road. The tires crunched in the red clay and gravel of the narrow shoulder. Well ahead of him, the pickup truck slowed, then did a U-turn and sped back toward them. “You can ride back with Dago and Crazy Horse,” he said.

“Warren Lightfoot. Bud.”


She frowned at him. “You’re a real asshole, you know that? I thought you might be a decent guy, like your grandfather, but I was wrong.”

“I am a decent guy,” he said. “I just don’t like being jerked around, and that’s all you’ve been doing.”

The pickup pulled off the road opposite Trey’s car. Bud rolled the window down. “What’s the problem?”

Mary leaned across Trey and called back, “He wants to go home. He thinks we’re tryin’ to pull something over on him.”

Bud jammed the shift lever into park and killed his engine. His door squealed as he opened it and again when he pushed it shut. He jogged across the road and leaned down to look through Trey’s window. “So, you don’t want to see your grandfather. He’s on his deathbed. It’s his last wish, on Earth. But you’re too busy to see the old guy off?”

“I think you’re trying to pull some kind of scam.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. I’m not the con artist; my grandfather is. And, I suspect, y’all are, too.”

Bud pursed his lips and went silent for a long moment. “Why would we bother to scam someone who’s broke?”

“Who said I was broke?”

“The Boss.”

“I’m not broke!”

“Really? That’s odd, ’cause according to Augie, you’ve been unemployed for almost a year. Your last three checks bounced like Texas Leaguers, and your credit report shows more red ink than black. A lot more. Your bank’s going to take your house at the end of the month.”

Trey squeaked, “You ran a credit check on me?”

“I didn’t. The Boss did. He said he had to wait until you were ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“A change,” said Mary. “Or would you rather go back to the same old, same old? At least until someone comes along to take it away.”

“Now wait just a damn minute–”

“Not us,” Mary said, “the bank.”


“Don’t get us wrong,” Bud said. “We aren’t above trying to pull a fast one on some fat-cat outsider. You’re more like family.”

“How comforting.”

“Don’t get drippy on us,” Bud said. “Can we go now? I wanna get home before dark.”

“Yeah, sure, but I’m not promising I’ll stay.”

Bud didn’t respond. He walked back to his truck, fired it up and gunned the engine through the turn which took him back the way he’d come. Trey pulled out after him.

“No one has to stay in Resurrection,” Mary said. “It’s not a prison. The people who live there like it there. Give it a chance; you might like it, too. If not, we’ll show you the way out.”

“I doubt you’ll have to show me,” he said.

Mary only smiled.


Marjorie Calcraft propped her chin on her knuckles and blew a strand of limp, blonde hair straight up off her forehead. Her closest friend, Alyson Spencer, topped off her cosmo, then carefully emptied the shaker into her own glass. “Drink up. The kids’ll be home from practice soon.”

Marjorie nodded despondently. “It’s Tuesday, right? Excitement night.”

“You goin’ out for dinner?”

“We never go out anymore. Will says it’s not cost effective.”

“He actually says that?”

Marjorie shrugged. “No, but that’s the way he acts. I’m tellin’ ya, Aly, I can’t take much more.”

“Then divorce him. You’re still a good-looking woman. You could find someone else, someone who’d appreciate you for who you are.”

“Oh, right. I’m sure there are loads of handsome, single, well-to-do guys looking for fortyish blondes in size 12 slacks.”

“You’re a 12?” Alyson asked, the skepticism in her voice barely contained.

Marjorie’s lips twisted to the side. “Sometimes. Depends on the label.”

“You could settle for less than perfect. Single and well-to-do sounds pretty good. It’d help if they like kids.”

“You’re the one with kids, not me,” Marjorie said. “You make it sound so… mercenary.” She swirled the pink beverage in her glass and just barely managed to keep it from sloshing over the edge. She preferred wine glasses, the big, trendy bubble style. The way Alyson made cosmos–half vodka, half cranberry juice, a splash of Cointreau–it only took one to relax her. Two usually put her in a mild state of euphoria. Two, in the bubble glasses, would put her in a coma. That evening, however, she felt nothing but depression. “I think maybe I’ll just shoot him.”

Alyson grinned. Marjorie knew she liked nothing better than a good conspiracy, especially if nothing ever came of it.

“Could be messy,” Alyson said. “Noisy, too. You got a gun?”

“Will does. Somewhere.”

“Know how to use it?”

“What’s to know? They do it all the time on TV.” Marjorie took another sip of her drink. “I could do it. I could lock him outta the house, and when he tried to break in, I could blow his cheatin’ little weenie off.”

Alyson took a sharp breath. “You think he’s cheating? Really? With who? Anyone I know? Wait! I’ll bet I know.” She gave her head a sympathetic shake. “It’s that busty brunette in the house with the pool. What’s her name? Sheila something. I’ve heard she sunbathes in the nude. Can you believe it?”

“It’s not Sheila Sonderberg,” Marjorie said. “She’s at least ten years older than I am. She gives kids piano lessons, fergodsake.”

“Well, then, who is it? Anyone I know?”

“Not unless you frequent strip clubs.”

Alyson’s previous sharp intake of breath failed to compete with her latest. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

“I followed him one night. He’s been acting strange lately. Even more than usual, if you can believe it. He gave me some ridiculous story about having to go to the office, but I knew better.”

“And he went to a strip club?

Marjorie nodded, tears welling in both eyes. “It took me fifteen minutes to get there, and I waited for almost an hour. He walked right past me when he came out. Didn’t even recognize my car! Never looked in my direction.”

“Maybe it was work-related.”

Marjorie gave her a look she usually reserved for only the most deserving dumb asses.


Trey and Mary had driven for about two hours when the pickup in front of them slowed to a stop on the side of the road. Dago hopped out and walked back to Trey’s car with the setting sun at his back, framed by a pair of non-descript Appalachian foothills.

“I’ll drive from here,” he said.

“No thanks,” said Trey. “I’m not tired.”

“He’s not worried about your safety,” Mary said. “It’s a security thing.” She looked into the back seat. “You can stretch out back there.”

Trey shook his head. “I’m not stretching out anywhere but right here, behind the wheel. Listen, I promise not to tell anyone where your goofy little town is, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re not worried,” Dago said, pressing something cold and hard against Trey’s neck.

When he woke, he found himself curled up on the back seat, the sole occupant of the vehicle. He sat up and looked around, expecting some sort of unpleasant side effect from the tranquilizer Dago must have used on him. Instead, he felt surprisingly clear-headed, as if he’d had a good night’s sleep.

He felt as though he owed it to himself to be angry at his captors, but he wasn’t. Whatever had knocked him out left him feeling awfully good, though he doubted he’d been asleep very long. The sun sat low in the sky, but it was far from dusk. He vowed to settle things with Dago the next time he saw him. And Mary, too. She could have warned him he was about to take a nap.

He exited the car which was parked behind a single, large house, and stretched. The dwelling was no different than a thousand others he’d seen in small towns throughout the South. Someone was in the process of painting the place, but it wasn’t a rehabilitation effort. The house had obviously been well kept. A huge dog of indeterminate breed filled the top of the stairs leading to the back door. Trey hoped it was on a chain, though it didn’t appear interested in him. It yawned, exposing saurian teeth and a long pink tongue. Trey decided not to venture too far from his car. The thought made him spin around and look at the ignition for his keys. They weren’t in sight.

“Trey!” said a gravelly voice from the porch. “How in the hell are you, boy?”

An old man leaned against the porch rail, a smile on his pale face. A great mane of white hair and a full, matching beard gave the man a distinctly Clausian look, although his body would never pass for a jolly old elf.


“C’mon up here, boy,” said the old man. “Lemme get a look at you.”

Trey ambled to the bottom of the stairs but stopped when the gigantic canine lifted its head and stared at him.

The old man waved his arm impatiently. “C’mon up. Tiny won’t hurt ya. He’s got about as much energy as me, and that ain’t sayin’ much.”

Tiny lowered his great head as Trey climbed the stairs and stepped over him. The dog never even blinked.

The old man grabbed Trey’s proffered hand and pulled him into a hug. “God, how I’ve missed you! I was sorry to hear about your Mom. I wanted to attend the funeral, but the doctor wouldn’t let me out of bed.”

Pressed to arm’s length, Trey examined his grandfather. Though thin and pale, he certainly didn’t look as though he’d just crawled from his death bed. “They told me you were, uhm, pretty sick.”

“I am. Gonna die soon, they say.” He gave Trey a toothy smile.

“You don’t sound very upset about it.”

He shrugged. “We all have to go sooner or later. No sense worryin’ about it.” He clapped Trey on the shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not eager to leave the midway. I’ll ride this carousel for a few more turns, but when it’s time to climb on the next ride, I’ll be ready.”

“You think death is just another carnival ride?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! Death is… death. It means everything’s over. Done. Endless nothing.”

“I like the carnival ride theory better. It’s hard to get excited about ‘endless nothing.'”

Trey felt suddenly foolish. He slapped his forehead. “I– I get carried away sometimes and forget when to keep my big mouth shut. I’m sorry.”

The old man smiled. “Don’t be. You’re entitled to your opinion.” He motioned toward an open door. “It’s cooler inside. You hungry?”

“Actually, I was thinking of maybe drivin’ back tonight.”

“Then you’ll need these,” the elder Bowman said, handing him his car keys. “But surely you can stay for dinner.”

“You’re not going to drug me again, are you?” He still wanted to give Dago a piece of his mind, but the aroma of fried chicken and fresh bread all but overpowered him.

The old man laughed. “I can’t promise you won’t get sleepy after you eat a big meal, but if you’re determined to leave, no one’s going to stop you. I’ll see to it someone helps you get to the main road.”

Trey followed his grandfather through the house toward the kitchen. All along the way the smells of cooking food grew stronger, and Trey’s appetite grew as well. A young woman met them at the kitchen door, then led the old man to a chair at a built-in table. “Have a seat, Boss. Everything’s ready.”

“Kate, this is my grandson, Trey. The one I’ve been telling you about.”

She smiled and extended a hand. Trey accepted it while examining her face. “You look so familiar.”

Kate chuckled. “I understand you spent the afternoon with my big sister. Folks say we look alike.”

Mary’s your ‘big’ sister?”

“Yeah. ‘Cept her name’s not Mary.”

A wave of confusion crested over Trey. It must’ve shown on his face.

“Her real name’s Ethyl. She likes to use a variety of names. Can’t say I blame her.”


“Yeah, like at the gas station, ethyl or regular.”

Trey still didn’t understand. He looked to his grandfather for help. He responded while piling chicken on a plate and passing it to Trey by way of Kate. “Ethyl teaches history,” he explained. “She was having trouble getting through to some of her students and decided to try something a little unconventional to get their attention.”

“This was a couple years ago, and she was getting desperate,” Kate said. “There aren’t that many folks willing to pay for history lessons to begin with. She couldn’t afford to lose any students.”

Trey tried to concentrate on what they were saying, but the smell of fried chicken made it difficult. Kate put a fist-sized helping of mashed potatoes on his plate and puddled gravy in the middle. A trickle of the thick, fragrant liquid dripped down one crisp edge of the chicken.

“What’d she do that was so different?” Trey asked.

“They were studying ancient Egypt at the time,” Trey’s grandfather said. “She came to school dressed like Cleopatra.”

“What a shock that must’ve been,” Kate said. “She found a costume from the old show days–harem pants, a skimpy top, lots of jewelry and make-up–then she waltzed into class and introduced herself as the Queen of the Nile. Wouldn’t say anything more until the students addressed her properly. Pretty soon they were asking questions and she was giving answers. I daresay those kids learned a lot. Then, when word got out about her skimpy costume–”

“Which took about ten minutes,” the old man interjected.

“–a whole bunch of boys signed up for her class. She wouldn’t let ’em in unless they agreed to stay the whole year, and paid in advance. She chose one new character a week after that, and just played the roles. I know–I helped her with a lot of the costumes. She got so good at it, and had so much fun doing it, that she let it slide over into her non-school life. She even wears the costumes when she’s working at the café. Customers love it.”

“I thought you said she was a teacher.”

“She is. She’s also a business owner. Co-owner, actually. She and a friend run a pastry shop in town.”

Trey nodded. “Do you know who she is this week?”

“Wait, don’t tell me,” said the old man, his food untouched. He clenched his eyes shut in concentration. They all sat in silence until he shook his head in defeat.

“Think Christmas,” Trey said.

Mary! Of course,” Kate giggled. “Bet that took you by surprise. ‘Course, she’s hardly a virgin.”

Feeling his role as a southern gentleman had been compromised somehow, Trey said, “I wish y’all wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me you’re not virgins.”

“Who said anything about me?” Kate asked, as she coolly met his gaze.

Trey chomped down on a fleshy drumstick and chewed to cover his discomfort. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted anything so flavorful.


Thus ends Chapter One. And there’s a LOT more to come. You can get it all here, for FREE, but you’ll have to hurry. Like I said earlier, the offer ends tonight at midnight.


About joshlangston

Grateful and well-loved husband, happy grandparent, novelist, editor, and teacher. My life plate is full, and I couldn't be happier. Anything else I might add would be anticlimactic. Cheers!
This entry was posted in marketing, novel writing, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Resurrection Blues

  1. Doris Reidy says:

    This was the first thing I ever read by you. It’s still one of my favorites.

  2. MaryCan says:

    It’s one I never read, but gotta admit, the first few lines grabbed me, so I ordered my Kindle copy asap. thanks.

  3. joshlangston says:

    I’ll get there, eventually. A wonderful friend of mine, Neil Franklin, pestered me relentlessly to do a sequel, and I will. When the time comes, I will dedicate it to him.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.