Spotlight: Blindspot in America by Elom K. Akoto

Blindspot in America gives a provocative depiction of some of the realities immigrants face in the United States—racism and discrimination—but also their hopes and faith in a country that promises freedom and opportunity to all.

Kamao is the son of a prominent Ghanaian academic and incumbent minister of health and is devoted to all that America symbolizes. After immigrating to the United States in pursuit of higher education and the American Dream, he becomes unwittingly entangled with American politics when he meets Lindsey McAdams, the daughter of an influential, anti-immigration senator. As the couple’s feelings grow, so too does the senator’s animosity toward Kamao. Despite support from fellow immigrants Lazo, Ayefumi, and Dania—who follow American Dreams of their own—Kamao soon finds himself drawn into intrigues hidden from the American public that make him question himself and his adopted country. When Kamao is implicated in a murder, Lindsey’s loyalties are tested, Dania must decide if she is willing to risk her own future and security for the sake of justice, and Kamao discovers how far he’ll go to fulfill his American Dream.

Excerpt

Kamao had been waiting for his trial in Virginia’s maximum-security prison Red Onion State for months now. The thick wall, the tiny window secured by four iron bars that let sunlight into his cell were all real. The bruises on his knuckles were a brutal reminder of the reality that surrounded him. At 4:00 p.m., two armed guards accompanied him to the small yard outside his cell, where he enjoyed the fading daylight of late February. He glanced into the void, attempting to hear the voice of his parents and friends telling him to be brave and not to lose hope. He thought about his parents; how were they handling his situation? They were denied a visa to the United States to be present at his trial. His father’s status as a government official didn’t help.

“This is a national security matter. We cannot allow a foreign country to meddle in a case that concerns the safety and the integrity of the United States,” a spokesperson from Homeland Security told reporters, answering the question about their visa denial.

At 5:30 p.m., a female kitchen helper brought his dinner to the secluded area of the facility. All his food and personal items were inspected by the guards on duty before they delivered them to him.

“All clear! I will take it from here.” The guard took the tray, opened the small window in the door, and placed the plate on the hard wood under the window. “Time to eat.”

“I am not hungry,” a voice replied from the back of the room. Kamao was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, his knees bent, and his arms crossed. 

“Look, man,” the guard said, “you need to eat. None of us knows what is going to happen to you in a few months, but we all know what will happen if you don’t eat.” He waited for a few minutes and continued, “Come on, man, just try to eat something, all right?”

The prisoner got up, walked to the window, and took the plate.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Sam replied. He looked at the poor guy from the window. Kamao looked pale. He had lost a lot of weight. His sadness was muting into despair. Would he ever be found innocent?

“Your lawyers will be here on Monday; you don’t want them to see you like this, do you?” Sam asked. “It would look like you’re giving up the fight. And if you’re giving up on yourself, how can you expect them to fight for you?” Every time Sam saw Kamao like this, he tried to cheer him up without exposing himself as showing compassion to the prisoner, which could result in his losing his job.

Sam was born in Louisiana to a Haitian father that immigrated to the Unit- ed States. His mother was from New Orleans. He was the only guard who never tried to give the prisoner a hard time. The others were usually rude to him, throwing his food on the floor for him to pick up the pieces and eat “like the pig that you are.” One of the guards, Mitch Garvin, from Alabama, lost his job after he made that comment and was heard by one of the supervisors.

Kamao sat on his bed and ate his food: some mashed potatoes and gravy, with two pieces of fried chicken thigh. Within a few months, he had be- come the most covered individual in the news across the country. CBS, CNN, ABC, even newspapers like the New York Times and Washington Post all had a story to tell about the case. For several weeks following his arrest, there had been demonstrations in many cities, some in support of his innocence and others calling for the application of the most severe sentence against the most infamous prisoner in the nation.

“It is time for your visit,” Sam said outside Kamao’s cell. The prisoner got up, put his hands together, and stretched them out to be handcuffed. The guard opened the door and led Kamao to the visitation area where he usually met his attorneys.

“You don’t look too well. Are you sick, Kamao?” Mr. Vivaldi asked.

“I am OK,” Kamao replied in a desperate voice. “I just can’t sleep well.”

“I understand that,” Mr. Vivaldi said, “but you need to eat and get as much sleep as you can. If you keep losing weight like this, you will get sick, and that can’t happen; you need to be strong for the trial.”

Mr. Vivaldi was accompanied by two other attorneys who were also rep- resenting the suspect. Many civil rights activists and the suspect’s supporters were delighted when the prominent attorney who had won the nation’s admiration by successfully defending some high-profile suspects agreed to represent Kamao. One of the cases he won involved the internationally renowned heavyweight boxing champion Tommy Johnson. Tommy Johnson was accused of raping and murdering Nathalie Stevens, a nineteen-year-old prostitute, in a hotel room in Las Vegas. Clark Vivaldi won the case, to the surprise of many.

Money was not an issue in Kamao’s case; he could afford the services of the most expensive lawyers in the country. After his arrest, nationwide fundraising for his defense went on for months. Besides Mr. Vivaldi, a dozen other criminal defense attorneys came forward to represent the suspect, each with different expertise.

“The jury has been selected, and the trial is set to open on April 11, which is a month and a half from today. Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, sir,” Kamao replied.

“OK then! Try to get some sleep, and please eat as much as you can; you need the strength,” Mr. Vivaldi added. He pushed his chair back, gathered his folders, and said, “I will let you know if there is anything new, and remember: don’t talk to anyone about your case when I am not around.”

“Understood, sir,” Kamao replied.

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About the Author

Elom K. Akoto immigrated to the United States from Togo (West Africa). He earned a bachelor’s degree in Education and a master’s degree in TESOL (Teacher of English to Speakers of Other Languages). He is the founder of Learn and Care, a nonprofit organization that aims to promote Literacy and Adult Education, not only among immigrants but also among Native Americans who missed the opportunity to earn a high school diploma. The program offers ESL, literacy, GED preparation classes, and more. He self-published two ESL workbooks: Ideal Companion, ESL level 1 and Ideal Companion, ESL level 2. He teaches French in a high school and ESL at a community college in Omaha, Nebraska, where he lives with his family.

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Spotlight: Tender Temptation by Kaylene Winter

Tender Temptation is a scorching tale of age-gap, insta-forbidden-love, hidden identities, coming of age, and second chances.

I’m a master at rebuilding structures, yet my own life is a constant work in progress. As the middle brother in a family of superstars, I've battled alcohol addiction and shoulder the hefty challenge of taking over the family business.

My world makes a seismic shift when I fall hard for Ivy Bright, a vibrant, enigmatic firecracker whose captivating energy makes me feel invincible.

Ivy is more than just a spark in my shadowed world—she’s a blaze. Her luminous presence ignites a clandestine desire in me that I can't resist. But Ivy harbors deep secrets and a tragic past that keeps her trapped in a life she never chose. Despite our undeniable chemistry, her decision to conceal her age and identity backfires spectacularly, threatening to unravel both our hearts.

Years later, will our rekindled passion withstand buried secrets that come to light, or will the truths of our past push us apart forever?

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback

Meet Kaylene Winter

Kaylene Winter is an Amazon best-selling author of steamy, contemporary romance.

Each character-driven novel is filled with snappy dialogue, pop-culture references and enough steam to make you fan yourself. Kaylene weaves authenticity, emotion and angst into a turbulent rollercoaster ride of love, passion and soul-searing romance always ending with a delicious HEA.

Kaylene lives in Seattle with her amazing Irish husband and gorgeous Siberian Husky. She loves creating art of all kinds.

Keep up with Kaylene and subscribe to her newsletter: https://kaylenewinter.com/newsletter/

To learn more about Kaylene Winter & her books, visit here!

Connect with Kaylene Winter: https://kaylenewinter.com/contact

Spotlight: A Trip Down Memory Lane by E.D. Hackett

Publication date: October 1st 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

A wedding, a snowstorm, and a road trip with your ex…what could possibly go wrong?

Cassidy McCarthy, a single woman from Tampa, is on her way back to Boston for the first time in years to attend her best friend’s wedding. While guilt has kept her away from her home and family, she simply can’t turn her best friend down.

At the airport, Cassidy becomes stranded by a freak snowstorm and is unexpectedly thrust into the path of her ex, Dusty. Forced to share the last rental car and a journey up the Eastern seaboard together, they are confronted with the shared past and buried emotions they both presumed long gone.

Cassidy can’t help but wonder if their story isn’t over yet…

When Dusty arrives at the wedding with another woman on his arm, Cassidy is thrown for a loop and reminded yet again of the destructive behaviors of her past. Will she find the strength to fix her mistakes and preserve the relationships she holds closest to her heart, or will she return to Florida alone?

If you enjoy closed-door romance, personal growth, and second chances, you’ll love E.D. Hackett’s A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

E.D Hackett is a Speech-language pathologist by day and a writer by night. She writes novels that investigate layers of self-expectations, family dynamics, self-love and self-acceptance. She hopes that her novels create a safe and cozy environment for her readers to fall into and explore. 

She writes women’s fiction with one foot in romance. 

She lives in New England but in her heart, she feels that she belongs in Ireland. She reads women's fiction and romantic comedies, prefers books to movies, loves ice cream over cake, and thrives in fall and spring. 

Connect:

https://edhackettauthor.com/

https://www.facebook.com/edhackettwrites/

https://www.instagram.com/e.d_hackettwrites/

Spotlight: Love at First Skate by Ellie Hall

(Love on Thin Ice)
Publication date: October 3rd 2024
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance, Sports

They say love is messy. Turns out friendship is too, especially when you’re stranded in a cabin with your best friend and hearts are on thin ice.

Teddy
I’ve heard that men and women can’t be friends without it becoming something more. Harlow and I put that theory in the penalty box, thank you very much.

She laughs at my jokes, secretly admires my hockey butt, trusts me with her biggest fear (it’s safe with me). In turn, she knows everything about me. Well, almost.

There’s been a recent development. I’m gone for her. Down bad. Solid Crush. She lives rent free in my mind. I’ve caught feelings. This wouldn’t be a problem except, you know, the whole shattering our friendship thing.

Harlow
You know those days you want to erase? It went like this: my boyfriend broke up with me (it was overdue), and then I broke up with my job while at a work conference (it was mind-numbing).

In an ironic twist, I won the raffle for a romantic getaway trip for two. Who else to bring other than my best friend who’ll gladly commiserate with me? He has a hockey event nearby, so it works out perfectly.

Until we’re stranded in the cozy cabin together. There’s a blaze of attraction. A friendship-changing kiss.
What now? Do we hit the reset button? Salvage what we had? Pretend it never happened? These are things I’d talk to my bestie about, but I can’t because I’m head over heels for him.

Love at First Skate is part of the Love on Thin Ice sweet small town hockey romcom series. It’s a best friends to lovers, forced proximity, no third act breakup romantic comedy with all the sizzle and chemistry, but none of the spice.

Excerpt

“You still have this, too.” I rub my thumb over the mood ring on her finger. I got it for her when we were in a beach town during spring break our junior year of college.

The omnipresent zing inside when I’m with Harlow gets stronger, louder, warmer.

She twists the ring, revealing the purple stone.

“Let’s see, what did purple mean?” I ask.

“I can’t remember,” Harlow says vaguely.

I use her phone to look it up. I still haven’t turned on mine, mostly because I don’t want to deal with my brother, especially not right now.

“You don’t have to. I’ve had it so long, I don’t think it works anymore.”

I swipe to the search results. “Purple means excited.”

“Who doesn’t get excited about pizza?” She takes a nibble. Where is Harlow’s appetite? She can’t be nervous. The mood ring says she’s happy.

Reading the mood ring decoder for purple, I add, “Happy.”

“It’s been a nice night.” Her voice is floaty.

“Also, passion, love, and romance,” I add in one breath.

“It’s silly—probably just reacting to my body temperature.”

Taking Harlow’s hand in mine, I slide the ring off her finger. “Let’s test it out.”

She clears her throat. “It won’t fit you.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she doesn’t want me to find out my mood. I slip it onto the top of my pinkie, which is as far as it’ll go. While I watch to see if the stone turns color, Harlow cleans up our paper pizza plates.

“It’s yellow. No, it changed to blue. Wait. It’s yellow again,” I report.

Harlow puts the leftovers in the fridge.

“Hold up. It’s still changing.” I watch mesmerized as the stone slowly morphs.

She sits down in front of the fire. I shimmy closer, eager to prove the ring still works. Then it turns purple, the same as when she had it on.

Clapping my hand on her knee, I say, “I guess we’re both purple.”

She goes still. Time hangs suspended between us. Our gazes meet. The fire stops crackling. Her eyes shine. Words retreat from my lips because there’s something I want that doesn’t require talking.

Then, remembering we’re just friends, I realize the placement of my hand and shift it to her shoulder, giving an awkward squeeze. That’s not much better because the zings are in full swing, racing through me.

When I give Harlow her ring back, our fingers brush. Her cheeks are pink, but it’s probably because she’s now warm from the fire.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Ellie Hall is a USA Today bestselling author. If only that meant she could wear a tiara and get away with it. ;) She loves puppies, books, and the ocean. Writing sweet romance with lots of firsts and fizzy feels gives her joy. Oh, and chocolate chip cookies are her fave. Ellie believes in dreaming big, working hard, and lazy Sunday afternoons spent with her family and dog in gratitude for God’s grace.

Connect:

https://www.subscribepage.com/w4z2y0

https://www.facebook.com/elliehallauthor/

https://www.instagram.com/elliehallauthor

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18639184.Ellie_Hall

Spotlight: A Not So Merry Ex-Mas by Abby Greyson

 Romance, Romantic Comedy, Clean & Wholesome

Date Published: October 2, 2024

This is a Dual POV kisses only, sweet holiday romantic comedy.

For years I've been dreaming of a real Christmas back home. Tree trimming, decorating, Christmas carols. What I wasn't expecting was Cole.

If I was to dream up the perfect man even my wildest imagination would have fallen short compared to Cole Nichols.

Tall, broad shoulders, smile to die for and dreamy green eyes that held a mischievous glint.

Add in a heart of gold, always helping others in need.

We had planned out every detail of our lives together…including his dream of becoming a major league pitcher.

So when my gran got sick and I needed to take care of her, I gave him the push he needed, breaking my heart, and his, in the process.

A decade, and a divorce later, I'm heading back home to start my life over.

That new start begins with Christmas at my best friend’s cabin…and the man I’ve done everything to leave behind.

Is Christmas past here to haunt me, or to bring a future I stopped letting myself dream of?

This is a sweet, kisses only, holiday romantic comedy with a second chance, close proximity, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, slow burn, and happily ever after.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback

About the Author

Best Selling, Award Winning Author Abby Greyson loves writing clean, kisses only, sweet and swoony romance stories that invite people to remember what it’s like to fall in love over and over and over again. Stories that make you laugh, root for the main characters and wonder what they are doing long after the book is finished.

On the days she isn’t reading or writing she enjoys spending lazy days with her Mr. Wonderful, her two pups and watching the Buffalo Bills on a football Sunday.

Want to know when Abby’s new books are released?

Follow her on Amazon or GoodReads.

Want updates and inside news? Join her newsletter at www.AbbyGreyson.com

Connect:

Website: http://www.AbbyGreyson.com

Instagram: www.Instagram.com/authorabbygreyson

Facebook: http://www.Facebook.com/authorabbygreyson

Spotlight: Can't Shake the Dust by C. H. Hooks

Buckle Up for a High-Octane Ride through the South's Shadowed Heart

In Can' t Shake the Dust, "Little" Bill Lemon, III, stands at the crossroads of a troubled legacy. From the notorious "Monkey Palace," his grandfather's bar, to the enigmatic history of his father, Wild, to his mother's questionable dog-breeding business, Little takes to the dirt track every Saturday night, racing to outpace the looming shadows of his family's past. 

Behind the wheel of a ramshackle DIY car, in a place where scarcity reigns— be it money, jobs, food, or even soap to cleanse the stubborn Georgia red dirt— Little teeters on the edge of self-destruction and redemption. As he navigates life on the fringe of Southern backroads, the weight of his ancestry threatens to pull him under. 

While checkered flags may elude him on the track, Little possesses the heart of a true champion. Readers will find themselves on their feet in the stands, rallying for him as he plunges headfirst into a turbulent voyage of self-discovery and survival.

Can't Shake the Dust is an exhilarating tale of resilience, tenacity, and the indomitable spirit of those who dare to race against all odds.

Excerpt

1. LITTLE

They say my daddy could’ve been the best racer there ever was, but that didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t breathe. 

Dirt. 

My nose was caked, and I could taste it in my teeth when I sucked through my lips, searching for a little bit of air to keep me running even when my car’s engine had found the shit-canned end of its own life—again. Might as well have left our house out on the track. 

My roll cage rattled like a can. Every time another one of those assholes lapped me I could feel the whole world rattle, like somehow Jesus was out there playing soccer with me and the car as the ball. My car was the Lemon Party II because Daddy wrecked the first one. More like, daddy got wrecked in. Didn’t really do it his ownself. Somebody put him into the wall, but he still wouldn’t tell me who it was. I had enough to deal with driving against those folks’ kids. 

Another car passed, and it felt like I might get sucked out through the window if I wasn’t strapped down so tight. Folks called me Little, just cause I was the youngest out of me and Daddy and Big Bill, my grandpaw. And I guess I was little once. But I’d stretched and leaned out, about as tall as Daddy now, but somehow the name stuck. My daddy got called “Wild” and that still makes sense. 

When the whole flock of cars passed they blew more dirt into the Lemon Party—II. My sleeves got a shower, a loose dust of gray clay and red dirt. The birds would try to bury me. Dang noisy birds flying around, circling and pecking just like those assholes did at school. When the draft tried to pull me out, I thought I might fly into orbit, find some far star even while my own childhood tried to twinkle the fuck out. Believe me, I could blink past the cloud of dust and find some dark sky out past the lights. Someplace I’d rather have been. Then I’d see the whole slew of them coming back around, lap twenty-something by then, and I’d do just like daddy told me, what he wished he’d have done, and I’d tuck my legs in to the seat real tight, push them over to the console. I’d do that, hope I didn’t get t-boned, and dream about a place more permanent, a place that wouldn’t roll away, and listen to all fourteen years of my life breeze by until they passed again.    

Instead, there was more dirt. My foot had slipped off the clutch mid-shift. The car stalled. It wouldn’t restart. The only time it had turned over, I’d given it too much gas and it sounded like somebody was playing ping-pong under the hood. 

Come the end of the race, I could barely hear. Dirt was stuck deep in my ears and I knew I’d find mounds like anthills on my pillow the next morning. I’d spit when I brushed my teeth and it would come out this grayish-red. The collars of my school-uniform shirts were always stained. They’d have these streaks that would smudge over time, till the whole thing was a different color than the original white. They expected clean and pure at the St. Francis Catholic School. They dragged me along on scholarship when I was for sure the only Methodist. You’d think my shirt would stay white since I wasn’t supposed to believe in original sin. Theirs really should’ve come off the rack stained. Was pretty sure I kept everybody in my class passing, writing near all of their papers so they could keep on winning while I struggled to get my own work done. 

Now I was in another race I couldn’t finish. 

I could read the signs through the dust. Don’t know how many times I read the Lucas Oil ad over on the wall next to me. I somehow always ended up parked in the same spot. Usually around lap two out of twenty-five. I knew I couldn’t, that it wasn’t possible, but I swear I could hear those other kids laughing over the spattering of mud when they passed.  

The officials didn’t stop the race to move my car. The dirt and mud covered the pair of large lemons and one smaller lemon hanging from the same stem. My mama, Nanny, painted the lemons on the door about a million years ago. She told daddy the white paint would look like a flash when it flew around the track. Mama didn’t come to the races to see that wasn’t for real.

The other cars crossed the finish and I watched Daddy limp over to the tall fence. He propped himself against the chain links and I barely pulled my scrawny ass out before the tow truck driver was hitching up to the bumper.  

“Good race, boy,” Daddy said. He was trying to smile. Trying to believe his own words till they got gobbled up by somebody’s busted muffler.  

The tow truck revved and dragged my car through the dirt. We’d made the roll cage out of patch welds and reclaimed steel. Now the car didn’t have a wheel touching the ground. It dragged behind chains drawing pictures in the dirt with its bumper. I’d been doing the same thing in the outfield at t-ball only a couple years before. Flies swarmed the lights high at the top of poles and the pale glow was just bright enough to make me have to squint over at daddy. Made it a little bit easier to hold back tears. 

“Made it longer than last time.” Daddy scratched his right leg like he did when he was trying. 

I looked back over at my car. The tow truck took the turn out of the track too tight. It kept pulling even when the Lemon Party II was stuck around the corner and the rear bumper popped off. 

“We’ll get it all fixed up,” Daddy said. 

“I could be the best that ever lived.” Don’t know why I mumbled those words or chose that second to do it. They say you are what you eat, and I’d been fed that goddamn line so many times from daddy. He watched the car disappear around the corner, too. I missed its tail in a blink. The bumper was still rocking, real slow, in the dirt.  

“What I always said.” Daddy scratched his leg again.

I walked across the track, pant legs of my racing suit puddling over the tops and backs of my Pumas, and aimed loosely at the gate between the track and stands. The suit was Daddy’s from when he was my age. He limped along beside me.  

2. WILD

Nobody cared about me trying. Folks said if there’s two cars on a road, there’s racing. I was racing an eight-week clock on a season that hadn’t even started yet—before the flag even dropped.

My own boy, Little, hadn’t won a race yet. Not even close. He’d chase the other cars around the track with the engine rattling a thrown rod, humping along like a heart ready to beat out. We chased bad money with good till there was nothing left to give but Nanny’s house. Nothing would change that but a new engine. We didn’t have the money for that, but my Daddy did. Driving to his bar for another round of begging, the clock was ticking off colors toward a sunset, peeling and dropping them like the label off a dip can.  

I drove out past the concrete bunker-looking strip malls with rows of “For Lease” signs, but for the big-box spots and the Mexican restaurants. I passed ProCreations, where Nanny worked. That was the big pet store with all the animals in it all stroked up on love. They sold the dogs and cats and such in pairs all hot and bothered and foaming looking for a good time. I felt about the same. She used to bring home about a dog-a-month, but they’d always run off when food got scarce. Then she started just bringing home that blush wine instead. 

It was over there on the left when I drove out to see Senior. So were the folks with their signs. The ones Daddy’d already milked for all their worth. 

These goons were always out there on the sidewalk of the last strip center on the way out of town. The tall one, long and thin, walked hunched under a plywood board sign roped around his neck. Old goon had scribbled on the wood:

Your sin will find you out

I slowed down a little and squinted. Probably needed to slowdown anyhow. Another ticket and they’d be trying to take my license again. But I slowed down too because next to the words he had him a photo of a man taped on his sign. It was a picture of guess who—my daddy, Senior, from a newspaper or maybe his high school yearbook. All on the picture it said:

Theif, Theaf, and Theef 

“Wonder what he done?” 

I kept on driving. 

Everybody owed daddy something, but they didn’t have to like it. He liked to think I owed him, too. A man couldn’t owe somebody who’d never done a lick of good for them.

Seeing that man straddled by his sign, his own doing, gave me a real empty feeling in my belly. I was hungry and had been for a while, ever since Nanny stopped coming around so much and the lawn-doing dried up. Every time I tried to go in ProCreations and see my fiancé, they got on the loud speaker talking about “Nanny Pet-Pet,” and everybody hid. 

I was probably squirming from the talk I was about to have with Senior too. 

Didn’t even own enough wood to make me a sign for all my gripes. 

The late sun sat on the edge of falling off, right in my eyes, blurred my windshield like there was something I wasn’t supposed to see on the other side. The windshield was like a mosquito graveyard, and there were a couple of cracks in the glass from my slapping at them. I yanked on the sun visor and the goddamn thing fell off in my hand. A metal clip fell between my legs and I adjusted, pushed my weight back and forth on my thighs until I couldn’t feel it anymore. I threw the visor onto the bench seat and held my hand up to clear the view. My wrist was on the wheel and a hand between my eyes and the sun. The smoke from my cigarette had me squinting a little more, but I smoked it to the butt before I pushed the nub out the cracked window. 

The wide-open parking lots tightened up into rows of tall pines that hugged the sides of the roads and the sun dropped behind their tops. Here and there, lines of tire marks were rutted through the thin strips of grass and traced patterns back to the trees. Their bark was scarred with burn marks and bald spots. Ribbons and rough wooden crosses leaned on the trunks. I could’ve slid my wrist just a little to the right and joined them. I wondered if somebody would’ve stuck a stuffed animal over there for me. 

I pulled up behind a big cage balanced on the back of a flatbed trailer. It hung over both sides and stuck out into the lane of traffic coming from the other way, if there ever was traffic. I swear, no less than six dogs lay on the slat wood floor of that trailer looking bored as shit. The bottom of the cage pressed up through the soft of their bellies and made them jiggle. They huffed in the heat, panted and rumbled along the two-lane road, seemingly happy as could be. When they bounced over a big pothole and the dogs lifted their chins for a second, letting the world know they were still living. 

The truck turned a little and angled off onto a dirt road. The dogs turned their heads only to be greeted by the dust kicked up by the truck’s tires directly in front of them. They cruised down the path, heads bobbing and bellies swaying, into the cloud of some forgotten shithole nook of South Georgia. 

I passed the county line marker. Senior’s bar and the land around it was taped off and measured by stakes with little pink flags, making sure the letter of the law was followed and that he could be left the hell alone. Pink neon ran through the building like veins and the whole place throbbed like some late night horror show experiment had come to life. The light glowed off the gold paint that covered the building and I wanted to see it melted down. The sign across the top of Senior’s concrete block and plywood compound was hand painted and said, “The Monkey Palace—King Kong of Honky Tonks.”

Copyright 2024

Reprinted with permission from Regal House Publishing

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About the Author

C.H. Hooks is the author of Can’t Shake the Dust (October, 2024; Regal House Publishing) and Alligator Zoo-Park Magic (2019). His work has appeared in publications including: The Los Angeles ReviewAmerican Short Fiction, Four Way Review, The Tampa Review, The Bitter Southerner, and Burrow Press. He has been a Tennessee Williams Scholar and Contributor at Sewanee Writers' Conference, and attended DISQUIET: Dzanc Books International Literary Program. He teaches at Flagler College, and lives and sails in St. Augustine. You can visit him online at chhooks.com.