The Plastic Straw Special Edition

THE PLASTIC STRAW

One Sip &You’ll Never Be The Same

FM Burgett

Copyright Notice

Copyright © FM Burgett 2015

All rights reserved.

The right of FM Burgett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 First published in paperback by FM Burgett.

FM Burgett (2015-0710). The Plastic Straw: One Sip & You’ll Never Be The Same FM Burgett. US Edition.

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

The Plastic Straw: One Sip & You’ll Never Be The Same is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 9780463262245

Distributed by Smashwords

Formatting by Ebooklaunch.com

Photographic Illustrations

Speciaal thanks to the members of the Alvin Senior Photography Club who contributed many hours and photographs to make the cover and interior of this book.

Photographic Credit goes to the following individuals.

Front Cover by Noel Hankamer

Back Cover by Bob Lindquist

Title Page by Russell Thatcher

Interior Photograph by Mary Lindquist

Interior Photography by Debbie Williams

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jenifer Reginato for editing and Kim Williams for beta reading portions of this book. Riki Depriest LaBoyd who helped push some of the previously published short stories.

Mary Lindquist, Oletia Teas, Joan Serna, Diane Davenport and Neva Bland for encouragement when the going got rough. They helped keep me plugging away at the keyboard even though there were days when I didn’t want to finish this book.

Finally, last but not least, Marla Grisby for her upbeat attitude, Mary Malek, Tracy Longshore, Debbie Williams who always make me smile, the members of the Alvin Senior Photography Club and the Crochet group.

FM Burgett

November 2015

Contents

Copyright Notice

Photographic Illustrations

Acknowledgements

1. Bayou Story

2. The Candy Man

3. The Dance

4. Flood

5. Olgolgen

6. Shadows in the Night

7. Death Bird Song

8. Ramblings of a Mad Man

9. The Heretic

10. Sailor’s Lament

11. Summer Dreams

12. The Old Mill House

Sneak Peak: Winona

Sneak Peek: Fire Lake

Author’s Note

Bayou Story

Small towns and rivers go hand-in-hand. Memories of summer, rope swings, and swimming holes often come to mind when thinking about small towns and rivers. Sometimes the rivers are called streams or creeks, and sometimes they’re called bayous, marshes, or swamps. The name depends on the geographical region of the United States you happened to be in at the time. Down south, these bayous are the murky outlets of rivers or lakes, the small bodies of water that never seem to go anywhere.

In the south, they are sluggish, marshy areas with ‘skeeters’ and other bloodsuckers, birds, and fish and ‘gators. ‘ But most importantly, they are places where legends thrive in backwoods towns and parishes, villages and counties, creating an eternal sense of mystery and danger. Bayous are the habitats of horrible creatures such as Bogeys… those large, hairy mammals also known as Bigfoot. Maniacs recently escaped from state hospitals, also like to reside in bayous.

Billy was thirteen going on fourteen when he first made friends with a swamp witch. His friendship continued to grow and deepen through 1969 when he turned eighteen, four decades ago. Sometimes it doesn’t seem so long ago to him, especially on the nights when the world outside is still with nary a breeze or night bird calling.

Louisiana, the heart of Dixie, land of the Deep South, was the kingdom of cotton, sugar, and shrimp. New Orleans was to the north and east of Tarawa. Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras swung with blues and jazz on every corner. The air wafted with scents of alcohol, and shrimp Creole, dirty rice and spicy gumbo, and people danced all night. Every night was a party down in the French Quarter. Outside New Orleans, the night was still.

Driving south from the city on Highway 23 takes you to Gretna and still further south are Port Sulphur, Buras, and Venice. Coasting westerly along Highway 90 you run into Raceland where Highway 1 joins in. Headed south along Highway 1 will take you to Golden Meadow and eventually Grand Isle. Tarawa, not located on any map, like New Orleans, is set dab in the middle of this convoluted triangle. The town is surrounded by the Mississippi River to its immediate east, Barataria Bay to the south, Bayou Lafourche to the west, and Little Lake to the north. Like New Orleans, you must cross a body of water, no matter which direction you come from into town.

In 1969, the roads leading into and out of Tarawa had not yet been paved and were mere dirt tracks, often muddy or under water. The main users of the roads were the delivery trucks, the postman, and the townsfolk escaping for a weekend in the big city. In 1969, fewer than seventy-five people lived in Tarawa. In those days, Tarawa wore a shroud of the past, surrounded by the remnants of white gentility, the tradition of black slavery, and the ghosts of great plantations. It appeared the ideal backwoods town, a forerunner of Mayberry in the old Andy Griffith Show. Under its sleepy mantle, however, the racial tensions of the decade could be felt.

Billy had a secret place that summer. It was a meadow he had carved out behind the gigantic yards, back in the swamps. There, he strung up a swing made from vine-rope he had twined and a stolen tire from Mike’s garage. It was located due west of Harold’s Grocery, although, if you didn’t know what to look for, you’d probably miss it. The large, blackened stump provided the only visible landmark to the clearing. It served as a sort of hiding place without a name. It was his place and only his closest friends were welcome in it.

There were four steady guys and a girl that tagged along sometimes. They’d spent a good portion of June dragging away the fallen debris to get to the sturdy cypress with its ten-inch thick branches. The tree was old and looked as though it might topple at any minute from the way its roots pulled up out of the ground and the crazy way its twisted body leaned. Spanish Moss hung thick from the smaller branches so that their wispy fingers frequently brushed against their faces as they worked.

Gary was the next to the oldest and often kept the others out of hot water. Only Terry was insane enough to swing until she was level with the branch. Mitch and Ted were terrified she would slip the tire swing over and go sailing through the air like a trapeze artist without a net.

It was just such a weekend that scrambled their fates so extremely. Only a traumatic experience could have usurped their plans. Mitch was going to be in the NBA; Ted wanted to be a doctor. Ted’s twin sister Terry was a racer. Billy planned to marry Mary Lou. So what happened to them? In 1969, they were teens about to discover a terrifying death on earth.

• • •

They chattered noisily and tossed a battered baseball back and forth as they strolled toward the pop machine at the local grocery store.

Which one you want, Gary? Ted asked, fishing coins out of his pocket, and jingling them.

Pepsi, of course, Gary replied, picking up a corner of his blue shirt and wiping his sweaty face.

Of course, Ted said, rolling his black eyes.

After they all had gotten their soda, they ran to the shade of the store’s porch. Sure is hot here, Terry rubbed the sweat from her gray eyes. Perspiration streaked her forehead. The group sprawled in front of the general store of Tarawa, Louisiana and drank thirstily from their pop cans.

From their dress, it was easy to distinguish between the summer residents and the natives. All the visitors wore permanent press shorts, while the natives wore patched, cut-off jeans. My brother hunts alligators, Gary boasted.

Wow! Terry exclaimed in awe. Hey, I heard there’s a witch in the swamps. Is that true? she demanded.

Yep, Gary nodded. Town folks claim Hattie lives somewhere back in the bayou. They don’t try to find her no more, because the last one who tried never came out again. My brother, Billy, is the only one who’s ever come out after seeing her. Old man Joshua says Hattie is a necromancer.

What’s that? Mitch asked.

I dunno, Ted shrugged. Who cares anyhow? He took a swig of pop and then said, "Alls we know is that