{"id":11372,"date":"2011-10-24T00:01:14","date_gmt":"2011-10-24T04:01:14","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/?p=11372"},"modified":"2011-10-24T06:09:54","modified_gmt":"2011-10-24T10:09:54","slug":"shotgun-gravy-an-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/2011\/10\/24\/shotgun-gravy-an-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"Shotgun Gravy: An Excerpt"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

I’m told by many that they’re really enjoying the book and they didn’t know what to expect and, hey, maybe an excerpt would be wise. Here, then, is an excerpt of SHOTGUN GRAVY<\/strong>, the first Atlanta Burns novella. It’s taken not from the beginning of the book but is 2,000 words from the first third. Check it out. If you like it:<\/em><\/p>\n

Kindle (US): Buy Here<\/strong><\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

Kindle (UK): Buy Here<\/a><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Nook: Buy Here<\/strong><\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

PDF (Direct): Buy Here<\/a><\/strong><\/span>
\n <\/em><\/p>\n

* * *
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

It\u2019s gone dim by the time Atlanta gets home. Sky the color of a bruised cheek.<\/p>\n

Mom\u2019s in the garage, face lit by the little TV she\u2019s got sitting on a cooler. The cigarette between her two fingers has a long, crumbly ash hanging there, smoldering like a snake made of cinders.<\/p>\n

When she sees her daughter her face lights up. \u201cWe got our check today.\u201d She fishes underneath her butt sitting there on the cot and pulls out an envelope and waggles it around. Then she notices: \u201cOh, shoot, this is the power bill. Gosh-dang PP&L, they didn\u2019t even read the meter last month. They just estimated<\/em> a bunch of nonsense. Thieves, I\u2019m telling you. And it\u2019s legal. But we did get our check.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSuper,\u201d Atlanta says, not meaning it. She moves to head inside.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s funny,\u201d Mom says a little too loudly. \u201cI remember we\u2019d go to the bank, you and I, and you were obsessed with the lollipops they had in a fishbowl by the counter. You wanted the blue ones, always the blue ones. I don\u2019t even know what they tastes like. Wasn\u2019t blueberry. I don\u2019t think anything in nature tastes like that so I called \u2018em \u2018Windex Pops,\u2019 but Lords-a-mercy, if they didn\u2019t have any Windex Pops in the bowl you would go unhinged<\/em>, so one time\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat story but I don\u2019t care,\u201d Atlanta says.<\/p>\n

Her mother\u2019s face falls like a ruined souffl\u00e9. \u201cI\u2019m just saying, I need to go to the bank to cash this. I thought you and me could hop in the Oldsmobile and go into town. Maybe checkout the consignment store. Been wantin\u2019 a new mixer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s an idea. Get a job instead and then we don\u2019t need to rely on you getting money from the state for doing nothing at all. What a crazy idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then Atlanta goes inside, ignoring her mother\u2019s stunned, stung face.<\/p>\n

She slams the door and goes and pops two Adderall soon as she\u2019s inside.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Adderall is good. Real good. The high has no jagged edges. And it does the opposite of those anti-whatevers they gave her at Emerald Lakes. Those little pills, each the shape of a baseball home plate, each the color of Pepto Bismol, softened everything. Life through a Vaseline-smeared lens. It took the pain and smothered it under a downy mattress.<\/p>\n

The Adderall takes the pain and straight up ignores it. It makes all the other shit going on so much more interesting, diminishing the pain by removing its bite. That night, she doesn\u2019t sleep because she doesn\u2019t have to. She cleans her room. She takes a walk down the driveway under the midnight moon, notices the windows of light still coming from the cat lady\u2019s house next door, she goes back inside and writes that seven-page paper demanded by that hag, Mrs. Lewis. (Of course, it\u2019s a seven-paged hate-fueled screed written in bold strokes with permanent marker.)<\/p>\n

Atlanta even cleans the shotgun. She doesn\u2019t have gun oil so she uses WD-40 and olive oil. She doesn\u2019t have a barrel brush, but she does have a wire clothing hanger that she bends and breaks and corkscrews into a wad of paper towel.<\/p>\n

She even pulls back the hammer and goes to clean it, but next thing she knows her heart feels like a jar of moths and it\u2019s like she\u2019s standing on the edge of a building teetering on the balls of her feet\u2014the vertigo threatens to overwhelm her, to eat her the way a bullfrog eats a mayfly.<\/p>\n

The shotgun has to go. She slides it under her bed.<\/p>\n

For the rest of the night she lays above it, staring at her ceiling with wide open eyes, willing her heart to stop flipping and fluttering.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cPsst!\u201d<\/p>\n

Whatever that is, Atlanta assumes it has nothing to do with her.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s got her locker open and going through the motions\u2014pulling books down off the shelf and letting them tumble into her bag even though at class-time she\u2019ll instead just sit in the back and read her Stephen King novel du jour <\/em>(today it\u2019s The Stand<\/strong>), collecting that sweet B+\u2014and she\u2019s thinking too about how she didn\u2019t sleep one wink last night and doesn\u2019t feel tired. Sure, the Adderall\u2019s blissful ignorance failed her eventually, but really, that was her fault. C\u2019mon. Getting out the shotgun? It\u2019d be like juggling a couple of hornet\u2019s nests and wondering how you got stung.<\/p>\n

Then: \u201cPsst! Tsst!<\/em> Fsst!\u201d<\/p>\n

Again, ignorance is bliss.<\/p>\n

She slams her locker shut, takes a long slurp from a Diet Coke.<\/p>\n

Motion catches her attention at the corner of her eye.<\/p>\n

\u201cAtlanta! Hey!\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s Shane Lafluco. That squat little tamale. Shit, is that racist? Dang. Whatever. Shane\u2019s well put together again: Polo shirt, khakis, wingtips, not a hair out of place (so much so it calls to mind the plastic hair-helmets you snap onto LEGO figures, she thinks). He\u2019s hiding behind the water fountain which nobody uses because the water tastes like weed-killer. He waves her over and then ducks into the alcove behind him.<\/p>\n

Yeah, no. She walks the other way.<\/p>\n

But it isn\u2019t long before she hears the clop-clop-clop<\/em> of his feet behind her, his little legs pinwheeling to catch up. \u201cWait. Wait<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

She spins. \u201cDude. C\u2019mon. Just trying to go to class here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI need your help.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d she says. \u201cHere.\u201d Then she musses up his hair. \u201cHigh school makeover, complete. Now you don\u2019t look like some kind of rocket scientist golf champion. We\u2019ll call that one a freebie. See you.\u201d<\/p>\n

She turns, but he steps in front of her, desperately trying to put his hair back in its well-ordered place.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he says, rolling his eyes. \u201cI need you for something else<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause me helping you the other day wasn\u2019t good enough?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll get paid,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

Through her teeth, she hisses: \u201cWhat is it you think I\u2019ll do for money, exactly? Just because\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cOh! No. No<\/em>.\u201d A genuine look of panic hits his face like a bucket of ice water. Flustered, he holds up both hands and looks embarrassed. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t\u2014I don\u2019t\u2014no, no, that\u2019s not what I mean\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cCalm down,\u201d she says, voice low. Others are starting to look as Shane continues babbling. She says it louder: \u201cI said, calm<\/em> down<\/em>. Just go. I\u2019ll follow. I said, go!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She recognizes the boy waiting for her at the alcove\u2019s end, sitting there on the lip of a planter where a plastic tree \u201cgrows.\u201d Chris Coyne. One of the school\u2019s self-proclaimed \u201cGay Mafia.\u201d Each of them gayer and more fabulous than the last. She knows a few of them\u2014or, knew them once, since nobody seems all that inclined to talk to her anymore\u2014and they seemed nice enough, though gossipy.<\/p>\n

Coyne\u2019s got his legs crossed. His hands steepled in front of him. His chin is up like he don\u2019t give a fuck.<\/p>\n

But when he sees her, that veneer of disaffected pomposity vanishes in a powder flash. His face lights up when she enters the alcove, trailed by Shane. Atlanta\u2019s not used to this kind of attention.<\/p>\n

She is, of course, immediately suspicious.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, God,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

Coyne leaps up, beaming. He starts to move in for a hug but she recoils as if he\u2019s coming at her with a pair of gory stumps instead of hands. He retreats, but the beaming doesn\u2019t quit.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the Get-Shit-Done Girl,\u201d Coyne says. An eager, excited little clap follows.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe who?\u201d she asks, incredulous. \u201cThe hell does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told him what you did for me,\u201d Shane says.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd we all know what you did before that,\u201d Coyne says, laying it out there bold and bright as day, putting it on the table the way someone might drop a microphone and walk off stage. As if she doesn\u2019t understand, he goes above and beyond to clarify: \u201cThe thing you did to your step-father.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ugh. Was that the story that was going around? Step-father<\/em>? Jesus.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt wasn\u2019t my\u2014\u201c she begins but then says, \u201cYou know what, fuck this. I gotta go.\u201d<\/p>\n

But before she again turns to escape this situation, Shane is exhorting her to stay and begging Coyne to lift his shirt and \u201cshow her, show her what you showed me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Coyne takes a deep breath and turns around. He undoes his black-knit sweater vest, and then begins to unbutton his shirt which is an orange so bright she wonders if he\u2019s going hunting later in some kind of gay nature preserve.<\/p>\n

When he lets the shirt fall, her breath catches.<\/p>\n

Dotting up from his lower back and trailing up his spine are a series of small circular wounds. Burns, she thinks. Each the size of a pencil eraser. They\u2019re still crusty and enflamed. One weeps clear fluid as the scab cracks. The burns go up to the base of his neck\u2014around the point of his collar\u2014but not beyond. Like the attacker didn\u2019t want to show off his handiwork. Like it was a message just for Chris Coyne.<\/p>\n

\u201cCigarette burns,\u201d Coyne says over his shoulder. \u201cThey\u2019re particularly, ahh, pesky<\/em> given the ingredients list in your average cigarette. They don\u2019t heal easy. Did you know in England they call cigarettes fags? Here I am: a fag burned by a fag. Go figure, huh?\u201d His words are glib, brave, but his tone \u00a0doesn\u2019t match: his voice shakes a little. He\u2019s trying to cork that bottle, keep the fear from coming out.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a familiar feeling.<\/p>\n

He puts his shirt back on. \u201cThey went further. They took my pants off. Shoved a bunch of hot peppers up my butt, spackled it over with peanut butter so it held the peppers up in there. Sounds funny, I know, and if it didn\u2019t happen to me I\u2019d laugh, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

Atlanta\u2019s not laughing. She says as much. In fact, she\u2019s pretty horrified.<\/p>\n

\u201cI pooped blood for a week,\u201d Coyne says, matter-of-factly. Now she sees it: the tears at the edges of his eyes, glistening, filling up, but never falling down his cheeks. He blinks them back, and massages underneath his eyes for some reason. \u201cWhen they did it, they said\u2026 they said that this will teach me that it\u2019s an exit<\/em>, not an entrance<\/em>. Ironic given that they were sticking things in<\/em> my ass, but I don\u2019t suspect that any of these fine upstanding citizens are in line for the Nobel this year.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was more than one, then,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

He nods. \u201cFour of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you know who they are?\u201d<\/p>\n

Another nod.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what is it you want me to do about this, exactly? Against four pissed off gay basher bullies?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou took down three bullies the other day.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shane grins. \u201cShe did. You did. It was pretty sweet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want me to scare them? Hurt them? Get revenge? That what this is about? Revenge?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe,\u201d Chris says. \u201cYes. I don\u2019t know. What I really want is I want them not to do it again. They told me they would. If I didn\u2019t \u2018stop being gay.\u2019 As if that was an option I could select on the menu.\u201d He stares off at a distant point. \u201cEven if they don\u2019t hurt me again they\u2019ll hurt somebody<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

She\u2019s chewing on her lip. This is a bad idea. No good can come of this. Is this who she is? Is this who people think she is, now, or who she should be? Still. Coyne\u2019s face is back to his untouchable, unfazed fa\u00e7ade\u2014any sign of tears are long gone. But his hands are still shaking.<\/p>\n

Her hands shake too, sometimes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll give you five hundred dollars,\u201d he says, finally.<\/p>\n

Wow.<\/p>\n

She lets that pickle.<\/p>\n

She owes Guy $100 for the pills. The other four would be nice to have.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine. Meet me at my house. Today. After school.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I’m told by many that they’re really enjoying the book and they didn’t know what to expect and, hey, maybe an excerpt would be wise. Here, then, is an excerpt of SHOTGUN GRAVY, the first Atlanta Burns novella. It’s taken not from the beginning of the book but is 2,000 words from the first third.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[71],"class_list":{"0":"post-11372","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"hentry","6":"category-theramble","7":"tag-fiction","9":"no-featured-image"},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pv7MR-2Xq","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11372","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11372"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11372\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11378,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11372\/revisions\/11378"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11372"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11372"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11372"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}