Why I Don’t Go Spelunking Anymore…

Another non-fiction essay from my Southern Gentleman blog. I’m pretty well sold on the idea of just making The Southern Muse my official writer’s platform and posting everything here. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think. As food for thought, here is, hands down, the most searched, read and popular thing I’ve ever written. It baffles me. Who knew a ghost story could be so interesting?

While He Lay Dying…

This is a post from my non-fiction blog, The Southern Gentleman. It was written in honor of my maternal grandfather, Emit Cox, and still remains one of my top five favorite writings.

He looked pitiful, lying there in a hospital gown, his face colorless and sunken from the removal of his teeth. The room was darkened, the curtain half drawn in an attempt to offer some sense of privacy. But when you’re staring at your grandfather’s body in the middle of a crowded emergency room, hurting from the pain of your heart exploding, you don’t need a curtain to feel alone.

You just are. 

The First Date Story

The following story is true. The details are a little exaggerated, but that’s just for comedy’s sake. The actual event, participants and overall flow of the evening are all as true as my memory allows.

You might find this hard to believe, but I was a bit of dork when I was in school. Actually, calling me a bit of a dork is like saying the U.S.A. has a slight deficit. I was a total goober – and the peak of my gooberishness was my 7th grade year.

Barely five feet tall, weighed less than your average chihuahua, I was able to be somewhat socially redeemed by the obnoxious aviator-style windshield-sized glasses that I wore, which complimented my braces and acne quite nicely. I was lucky that mirrors reflected me, I was such a mess. I was so dorky that blind people would scream when I passed by.

In short, to my memory (and because it’s funnier), I was a complete loser.

Homecoming: A Bence Little Story

       Wake up hot and sticky, smelling of beer and cigarettes, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth, and you know what Athens, Georgia is like. Even teetotalers know the wrath of the amber devil in this town, what with its three-day old feel and slow moving mornings.

            You wouldn’t think a town of thirty thousand transients would get into your blood, but there’s always something going on, something bubbling beneath the surface, and it just grips you. It’s why the population has swelled to over 100,000 – once people get here, many don’t wish to leave. It’s not just an attempt to stretch out the beer-n-bud glory days, though. Athens, unlike a lot of other places, just doesn’t give a rat’s ass about stress and hustle. Athens would rather sip a beer and people watch, and that’s just fine by me.

            I wanted a chance to come back to someplace that felt like home, no matter how dysfunctional. From my loft on East Clayton Street I watch the bicyclists and students whiz by on their way to whatever is important at that moment. The bar beneath me, Flanigan’s, is kind enough to float me free food in exchange for my “good neighbor” status, which is to say that I get dinner gratis every night of the week as long as I don’t bitch about the music or the kids mistaking my front door for the men’s room. I get covered parking for the car I don’t really drive, and my favorite thing of all is the smell of fall mornings from the small portico off the front of my building. It’s all apples and perfume and excitement, and it is the only thing that gives me peace since I can’t remember when.

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It’s Official – Welcome to The Southern Muse

Thanks to everyone who voted, the blog is officially rechristened.

The Southern Muse.

I even created a new tag line: “For the best Southern short fiction: Ready. Set. Drawl.”

I’ve been busy at work, so there haven’t been many posts, but I hope to remedy that soon. Tell me what you’re wanting to read – I’d like for there to be more to this than just me dumping stuff out of my head. If you’ve got a story idea, a genre preference, a story starter, whatever – just send me a message on The Southern Muse fan page on Facebook, or leave a comment below.

Hopefully, we’ll have some new stuff under the new name next week.

Blessings!

Jason

Journey

It was the sound of the boy’s jaw, breaking like that, that told Eric he’d done something really wrong. But it was too late – you can’t unbreak a jaw – and when the cop put the handcuffs on him with a severe *click*, Eric broke into tears.

Later, when his father pulled him from the police station, literally pulled him by his ear in full view of all of the cops and people out in front of the station house, Eric cried again. The slam of the rear door on the car offered him his first bit of isolation, and despite his father’s angry yells over the seatback, Eric settled into silence.

Once home, his mother stood on the front porch, her hands shoved into the pockets of her apron, her face awash in confusion and anger and motherly sympathy, the kind her husband said had turned Eric into a “pitiful loser.” Eric drug himself out of the backseat of the car as his father stormed into the house.

“Arrested!” his said. “My son! I’m ruined in this town!”

Eric looked to the porch. His mother, her head bowed, dutifully went inside to console her husband. Eric, again, alone.

He trudged to the front porch and drew himself up the stairs by the handrail. But standing face to face with the front door, he couldn’t go in.

Wouldn’t go in.

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Excerpt from Reformation

Author’s Note: this is the first chapter from a book I’ve been working on for years. I’ve not quite found my groove with it, despite having almost 100 pages completed. I think it’ll be an interesting story, but recently I’ve begun to wonder if I’m better off writing just short stories, as I never can find the time to truly dedicate to a novel.

Regardless, in the interest of having something to post for today (my goal is to post something every day this week) I’m offering up the first chapter of my novel-in-progress, Reformation. It follows the life of Ian Mullins, Catholic priest, whose brutal assault and near murder on a New York subway car leave him a broken and racist man. After his assailants are found not guilty, Ian’s hatred spills over and he leaves the priesthood for the South. His reason?

To join the Klan and lynch a black man…

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Smoke on the Wind

I can hear the screams, even from far away. They rip through the city on the wind, savaging the small earthen homes and the occupants within. My family is huddled, together, against the back wall, as far away from the front door as possible. The lights are out. We pray that for once we are forgotten.

My father’s arms are wrapped around my mother, whose arms are wrapped around me. I in turn hold my sister, who clings to her favorite doll. Though we do this as a way to create strength from our fear, I can read my parents’ eyes and I know the truth:

Death is coming tonight, and no amount of holding and hiding will stop it.

Help Me Vote on a New Name

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote that the old blog needed a new name and solicited your thoughts on what it should be. Being true to my word, I’m posting the top suggestions (actually, the only suggestions) for you to vote on. I’m partial to one myself, but being a man of the people, I will abide by your collective decision. Unless it sucks, at which point I’ll roll with my instincts.

But, forthwith, here are the suggested renames for Story South, along with the accompanying defenses of the suggestions. The poll will appear immediately afterward.

Southern Drawl - How about: Southern Drawl . . . it describes the location of the writings and it describes the method of speech (drawl), but also draw is what you do when you write a story.  Just a thought from someone who doesn’t always think right.

South Tales – no defense or explanation given; I like the confidence of the submission…

Song of the South – “I like “Song of The South” but Uncle Remus might file copy right proceedings… with that blue bird on his shoulder as a co-plantiff”

The Southern Cross – I have not read the works or anything because I only read hospital discharge papers right now, but maybe ‘The Southern Cross’…nevermind Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young…it is also a constellation. There are no copyright laws amongst aborigines.

Southern Solace – again, no defense, just confidence.

Southern Hospitality – speaks for itself. You know, if ideas translated into words could actually speak…

The Southern Muse – literary, historical, interesting.

Alright – it’s in your hands now. Let me hear from you, and I’ll let you know by the end of the week the official verdict. Here’s the poll:

The Devil in the Downturn

Author’s Warning – I debated a long time about putting this story on the site, for a couple of reasons: first, because I submitted it to two publications that take forever to respond (one still hasn’t) and ask for first rights to any story – so I couldn’t even publish it on my own blog until they turned it down; and second, because this story is about the Devil there are some words in here that I struggled mightily with using. The F-word in particular. But in thinking about the Devil as real being, I decided he would have no problem dropping a cussword or fifty if that’s what it took to make a person comfortable with him. So, FAIR WARNING: THERE IS ADULT LANGUAGE IN THIS PIECE. IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY THAT TYPE OF LANGUAGE, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY.

I don’t want anyone not to read it, but I also don’t want anyone offended. So, your best judgment is required here.

Now – The Devil in the Downturn.

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