Book Junkiez

In his mind, Matt watched the pain in his young wife’s eyes drain straight down to her soul. 

It’s my fault that she doesn’t trust me, he realized. And she had a point. A secret is the same as a lie. And the truth is, I tried to hide my past from her. For a seventeen-year-old woman, she sure is wise. I guess that’s the Choctaw blood in her. And she stayed with me. That must be from her upbringing, too.

Milla’s strength ran deep, drawn from her heritage and her grandmother, Granny Sukey, a woman who carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who never needed to raise her voice. 

Granny Sukey was the most traditional Choctaw woman he had ever met; completely unshaken by stares and whispers of the white settlers who thought themselves more civilized. Her long dark hair with streaks of silver fell loosely around her small face and almond-shaped eyes with the same grace as a horse’s flowing mane. Barely five feet tall, she walked lightly in beaded rawhide boots and buckskin dresses, always wrapped in a brightly colored  shawl. 

She came from the Folsom clan, strong and fierce, said to be of ancient blood and revered in the old Choctaw Nation in Mississippi. It was no secret that she had advised Milla to stay in the marriage because of the pregnancy. 

Milla had said to him one night, “Granny Sukey reminded me that Choctaw women were the head of the home. We’re warriors and loyal. My strength will lead our family into the future.” 

From that day forward, Milla did as she saw fit, seldom seeking Matt’s approval for anything. 

She’s a good wife, Matt reminded himself. And I love her truly. One day she’ll trust me again.

As the train pulled away from the depot, Matt couldn’t help but draw the small curtain away from the window and peek out, just to see if she was there. She was not. 

With his back against the wall, legs outstretched on the bed, and ankles crossed, Matt shifted his holster a quarter inch forward to allow for better access while seated. He sat quietly for a moment then fished a silver pocket watch from his vest pocket, cradling it firmly in one palm. Its chain, looped through a buttonhole of his vest, swung gently as he held it. 

Matt hesitated. As if counting the sorrows of Milla wasn’t enough, the watch brought something darker. Staring at it, he debated whether this was a conversation he wanted to have with himself, again. 

A long breath followed, then a sigh. His thumb pressed the button on top, and the cover sprang open with a snap. Instinctively, his thumb glided softly over Milla’s image inside the lid. Then he looked at the time. 

“Ten-thirty-two,” he said aloud.

In the quiet of his mind, the count resumed.

Two hundred twenty-three days, nine hours and twenty-six – no, twenty-seven minutes.

Since I murdered my brother.

300 Words

The sun was just rising through the thick leafy branches, offering deep shadows to hide in. This is what she was looking for. Milla dropped her bucket and pushed Matt against a tree. 

Letting his bucket clatter to the ground, Matt took Milla by the waist, pulling her against his chest. His hand cradled the back of her head as he kissed her with a slow, passionate intensity.

Her soft moans rose over the sound of the flowing creek. “Not here,” she whispered breathlessly. “Closer to the creek.” 

She led him deeper into the woods. Finally, the flow of water drowned out the sound of her passion; a hidden place where she could see the bridge and know if anyone was crossing. 

Milla rested her back against a rough-barked tree. “This is better,” she sighed as he lifted her skirt. 

“Are you sure?”

Her lips brushed his neck in a breathy reply. “Yes.”

 With one arm around Matt’s shoulder, Milla held her skirt up while Matt fumbled with his britches. He lifted her thigh against his waist, her body yielding… until she stiffened, inhaled deeply… then screamed, pushing him away. Her frightened eyes met Matt’s confused stare and then locked onto something beyond him.

“Granny!” Milla screamed, running down the edge of the creek, fighting the thorn vines snagging her skirt. 

Matt yanked up his britches and tore after her. 

“Granny!” she screamed again, racing toward the bridge.

“Milla! Milla, wait!” Matt gave chase, tripping as he buttoned his pants. 

Her footsteps pounded across the wooden bridge, echoing through the trees, and she cried even louder, “Granny! I think it’s Granny!”

On the other side of the creek, where the path met the blueberry bushes, a body lay in a heap beside the footpath of the cemetery. As Matt got closer, dread seized him. The buckskin dress was unmistakable. Granny Sukey. She lay motionless on her side, facing the bushes.