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The Last Winter of 2000
Beginnings are impossible. I’ve been starting the author game for 20-plus years. It rarely appears as work in progress. Fits and starts. That’s my record. Fits lead to starts/restarts lead to fits, ad nauseam. Time to stop beginning and advance. Accept my invitation...
MGC Chapter Ten
“Slow morning?” I asked the bespectacled, middle-aged Pippi Longstocking-type behind the counter. I’d settled on a stool at The Daily Diner in Eureka, Montana, after the grueling drive through the mountains. I was ready for a hot cup of joe and a fattening meal....
MGC Chapter Nine
I was on the road again by one a.m., merging the Tacoma onto the empty highway four days before Thanksgiving. The asphalt stretched out like a deserted runway, devoid of slow-moving tourists or farm tractors. Abandoned rest stops flew by with picnic tables as empty...
MGC Chapter Eight
The jangle of the 600 Café doorbell harmonized with the raucous clatter of dishes. A hum of neighborly chatter and the comforting aroma of brewing coffee chipped away at the chill of disgrace that lingered from an afternoon in the slammer. I’d left those two yahoos...
MGC Chapter Seven
Feeble illumination from a lone bulb flickered above thirty feet of dark mahogany, giving the deeply polished wood of the Montana Bar a reverent glow. Rows of bottled spirits trembled with the electric energy of the back bar lights. An odor of disinfectant jeopardized...
MGC Chapter Six
Five-year-old Penelope Jane thrust a multi-colored drawing at my face. “Unicorns are real,” she said in the manner of absolutes reserved for young children. I’d driven home, needing to see her, to touch my child, make sure she was safe. Stretched out beside her on...
MGC Chapter Five
“That deal with Johnny Martin,” I said, striding toward Mother’s car and stabbing a thumb over my shoulder. “It’s the one that saves our business. And you just drove over top of it with your damned Chrysler.” My heartbeat had to be double its resting rate. “You left...
MGC Chapter Four
“Are you going to take a blasted minute?” Mother’s voice blew past like a northern wind, rattling the gates in the stockyard next door. A few desperate cows bound for the slaughterhouse bellowed. Johnny rattled away in the battered F-250, past a long line of unsold...
MGC Chapter Three
Johnny Horton Martin hopped out of the pickup with the energy of a teenager. I stepped out to greet him, the big chalky sky of late November embracing me with a chilly promise. Johnny narrowed his eyes and offered me a disarming grin. “You come up with a better deal...
MGC Chapter Two
The Nokia slipped free as I checked for signal bars. Its first contact with the motor snapped it shut. The compact black brick bounced through the engine compartment with the energy of a pinball. My hand chased it halfway through the power labyrinth before something...
Mark Wm Smith
An overeducated, blue-collar cowboy, I grew up on along the banks of the Yellowstone River in Eastern Montana. Raised by a long haul trucker and a bartending waitress, I learned the hard ways of the modern frontier, scraping life from the unforgiving high chaparral.
Free Novella
