Southern Fried Weirdness

By Donna Burgess

It is at a roadside stand that sells little Indian figures, pow-wow drums and costume head dresses
We meet the old man and woman
Talkative fellow, the old guy
Tells Peter and me about the road winding long and thin as a blacksnake’s back
Up the side of the mountain where we are outsiders in our shiny car
And straight smiles
“Don’t take a wrong turn,” he says.
 
Tells us of the bottomless pool 
Where their own beloved son swam for the last time ever
His ancient bride is quiet, sitting and swatting at things I do not see
Picking at the front of her food-ruined dress with fat and gnarled fingers
“Poor thing, don’t know she’s in this world anymore.
“I love her ‘tho she eats the spiders from the corners of our shack
“And talk to our boy like he is right there.”
 
Little dog yaps at our heels and we make conversation polite but rushed
Obliged to buy a jar of something that looks too thick and dense for even pear preserves
“Stay for supper,” the old man says.  “We’ll have something … special.”
Still we hurry away, guilty and relieved at the same time.
In the car, I say, “Something isn’t right.”  But we’re jaded city folk, after all
I examine the jar, holding it up to the cool, autumn sunset bleeding through the windshield
Through the muck, it’s tough to make out the color of the eyeball inside
 
I drop the thing between my feet with a cry
Peter stands on the pedal
And we eat up the miles of winding old blacksnake road
Pass the hateful bottomless pool where we had dipped our toes an hour before
We hope like hell we don’t take a wrong turn
But the left front tire starts to thump like a broken heart
And the sun begins to sink behind the towering pines.

About the author:

Donna Burgess lives on the South Carolina coast where she enjoys writing, surfing and studying the ghostly local legends.  You can visit her on the web at www.donnaburgess.net.

Copyright © 2008, Donna Burgess