# Just an excerpt



## JoBlueQuarter (Jan 20, 2017)

I love this! Very well written and you captured the emotion perfectly!


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

Thank you. Andrew is a Walker... that's not just his last name. He's the type of creature that was once a normal mortal but made a deal with the devil to 'walk' the earth in search of corrupt souls to 'flip'... to get them to make a deal with the devil and do as he does.


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## knightrider (Jun 27, 2014)

I am looking forward to reading more! Thanks for sharing. Your descriptions are awesome!


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

Thank you. Uhm. Some of what I write will have to be edited a bit if I add more. It IS the horror genre and it's not something suitable for young adults under the age of 15 or so, and then, I'd say it depends largely on the material the young person is used to, and since this site has a broad age group when it comes to members, I'll have to play on the safe side.

For example, my son is 16, he's a huge Stephen King fan, and I know the content of Stephen King novels. He loves them, he's mature enough and grounded in reality enough that I don't blink an eye when he reads what I write. In fact, he's a reading member at the site where I write and while our Lone Star Hauntings is more PG-13 or rated R, we do keep an NC-17 rating on it, just to be safe. This keeps out wandering Way Too Youngs. They have to apply to read and we can vette them properly before allowing clearance.

THIS part of that story was never completed. It was more an experiment. I have others that also feature horses as two other characters I write own horses, there is a fictional ranch in Texas we use as a setting for a few stories, and I have a young Texas/Tejano Highway Patrol who owns a mule. I can post those here for certain with minimal clean up or safety concerns.


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

This will be something of an abrupt jump but this is the character that brought me into the contemporary/horror genre. I'd never tried writing anything contemporary, I thought it would boring compared to fantasy and sci fi. I was wrong. This is Jon Morrison, a mid to late 30 year old character that never really found his niche over the years. I always imagined him looking like Paul Walker. He found a new life when I reinvented him as a divorced father and firefighter from Baytown, Tx who, after writing him for two years solid now, is starting to realize there's so much more to his mother's family than he, or she, ever realized. He's had to come to terms with his mother's suicide in Austin State Asylum, and with his daughter suffering the same mental illness at a much, much younger age. Only it's not mental illness at all - simply a misdiagnosed 'gift'. The songs I add to these posts are what I used as 'theme' songs to each post at the writing site. I did go through and edit out any language. If I missed one, I apologize to the mod crew. It was not intentional. 

This is part 1 of Pieces of Me. Part 2 takes up with his daughter taking the phone.

****************

But tomorrow will be a brand new day
And I hope that it brings the chance that I forgot to take
And I know there's so much I can be
If I can be strong enough to throw away these weak pieces of me.​ 

The dim light of an ancient, questionably clean, refrigerator illuminated an equally ancient, questionably clean, kitchen. It seemed neglected, trapped in the 1990s with its hunter green cabinets and sunflower wallpaper border. A pile of dishes festered in the battered, white porcelain sink. Its wall was stained with a line of rust, but you couldn't see it for the dishes.

"No... Jen..." A blond haired man stood at the refrigerator, staring into its questionably cool depths as though something edible would simply materialize if he stared within a little longer. 

"Okay. Whatever. _Jennifer_. I don't want to tell her on the phone. How about Thursday? I'm off Thursday. We could..." Whoever he was talking to cut him off, again, and he pulled the phone away from his ear, glanced at the screen, reached in the fridge and pulled out a beer. He shut the door with his hip, twisted the cap off and threw it in the sink full of dishes.

"Okay. Thursday is ballet. I'm on swing shift now, so... maybe Friday..." Belatedly, Jon realized his daughter would be in school until 3:15... and he'd have to be at work by 4:00. 

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder. She's in school. Okay. How about Sa..." He paused, took a drink of the beer, sat it on the counter, grabbed up a potholder and jerked the door open to the tiny, ancient, and questionably clean oven, which was starting to smoke from questionable food items falling to the bottom and not being cleaned. He pulled a cookie sheet out. On it was a pizza.

"Soccer. Right. Yeah," He tossed the pizza on the stove top, then had to scramble to grab it when it threatened to slide off the side of the stove and into the floor, "I know I missed her game last wee...." And every game before it, "Yeah. We had a house fire. I didn't get in bed until after sun up. Yeah, that big old house over on California street. Yeah, that one... Fully engulfed by th..."

He took a deep breath to control the rising irritation he was starting to feel. His ex-wife had a way of doing that, pushing every button he had until he finally lost his cool and yelled at her. Then she'd play the hurt victim and deny him the chance to talk to Cassie, who for a 12 year old, had a very busy life.

Intentionally busy. She was always in ballet, piano, softball, summer camp, equestrian camp, swimming lessons... those last two had really gigged him. He'd been a lifeguard in high school and college, he could teach Cassie to swim as well as anyone. He had Cisco still, and Cisco was as good a horse as any to learn on.

Mainly because he was lazy.

"Yeah, I'm still here. Just... digging dinner out of the oven... But no. Jennifer... I can't tell her this on the phone. I put my two weeks' notice in today. I have to be there in two and a half weeks, and I'm hauling Cisco with me. Can I just..." 

He tossed the pot holder on the counter, picked up the beer, and shook his head, "Well because I can't afford to pay someone to haul him and I darn sure can't afford a plane ticket. Yes. Its a good paying job. Its worth it. What? No... that's not what I'm saying, and you know it..."

He took another drink and pulled the phone away from his head again. The look he gave the phone should have incinerated it, but nothing happened to it, or the woman on the other end of it. She had a way of twisting his words. She always had and somehow, he hadn't realize it until they'd gotten divorced.

"Are you freaking serious? Did you seriously just ask me if I notified the child support office already? Jenn... ifer... I haven't even gotten a single CHECK from them yet."

The sound of Jennifer's voice could be heard through the speaker of the phone and he turned and looked at himself in the window. It was inky black outside and raining to beat hell. It had rained in Baytown for over a week, left overs from an autumn hurricane that had fallen apart somewhere between Veracruz, Mexico and Cuba, and still that house had burned like it had been soaked in gasoline and diesel and set on fire with a flame thrower. The fire had rolled into the sky as though the rain wasn't falling. Lightning had seared the clouds, lit up the night and thunder had shook the engines, the ground, the air... and still that house had burned.

It felt like some cosmic conspiracy to keep him from going to Cassie's soccer games. Car wrecks and gas leaks, refinery scares... all seemed to happen just when he thought he had time to swing by, to watch her dance, or play a piano recital. One time... one time he'd made it, and it was because his pumper truck had deviated on its last run back to the fire house. He and five other firemen had made it to the ballet. They'd stood in the back of the school auditorium in their soot smeared, sweaty, water and foam soaked gear, smelling of burned house and worse, burnt people. It had been a fatality fire, two elderly people had died and so had their dogs. It was a smell that stayed with you. You could smell it in the fibers of your gear, taste it in your mouth.

And everyone there had smelled it on them.

But he'd made it.

Jennifer hadn't been as impressed as Cassie had been.

Speaking of Jennifer, her voice was reaching a slightly hysterical pitch, which meant in a few more seconds she'd start crying. If you could call it that. It looked like crying. Sounded like crying. Tears would fall. But her eyes would never get red or swell. Her face wouldn't get all blotchy, her nose wouldn't even run. Somehow she'd keep her mascara in place and when it was over, she'd look weepy and beautiful. 

She'd look like some kind of idealized martyr in a painting, eyes turned skyward, hands out to Heaven in supplication. Persecuted, lovely, and sad, but willing to suffer, ready to give a weak smile to whoever was the first to ask if she'd be okay.

"Just freaking shoot me now." Jon muttered as he stared at his own reflection in the kitchen window, then looked down at a tear in the yellowed linoleum. He toed at it, then looked back up at his reflection again. It was a splintered, pieced together reflection - the window had been busted near the edge of the glass. It was held together on the inside with clear shipping tape, on the outside with black gorilla tape. He was tanned, weathered from spending every chance he got either on Cisco or on Stewart Beach in Galveston. His blonde hair was still damp, curled, and just a little mussed from the shower and a toweling off. He was bare from the waist up, and from the waist down, had on a pair of UnderArmour shorts. His clear blue eyes rolled up as he listened, then cut to the side, then rolled up again. 

He sat the bottle down on the window sill. Absently, his fingers pushed on the tape and the glass beneath. He let out a soft breath, then snorted out a silent laugh. Splintered and held together with duct tape. He knew the feeling and the face that stared back at him showed it.

"What? No. I didn't say anything. Because that would be rude and insensitive, talking over you."

See? He'd learned something in three whole sessions of marriage counseling. He learned marriage counselors picked favorites. They could be manipulated and lied to just as easily as everyone else.

He'd also learned sometimes Happy Wife did not equal Happy Life. Some women, some people, couldn't be made happy. They didn't want to be happy. 

If Jennifer was happy with Ryan now? 

Well? 

Jon snatched up the beer and finished it off, then tossed it into the already overloaded sink. Then he fished out another. He had quit feeling bitter and hating his replacement a long time ago. Now he felt a little sorry for him.

"Okay." He took a long drink and nodded as he did, "Got it. Yes, I'll make sure the child support office gets... yeah. I have their number." Oh heck yeah, he had their number. Of _course_ he had their number.

"December 1st. You know how this works, Jennifer. I get paid monthly and I have to work a month to get a check, and I have to get a check to have a check stub to send... November 1st. I start on Nov..." Jesus. Nine years they'd been divorced and she still couldn't let him finish a **** sentence before she was talking over him or cutting him off.

"Look... how about Sunday? Maybe after church? I could meet you guys at... What? No... Jen? Jen..." His eyes squeezed shut. One side of his face twisted up in a grimace and his head tilted a little, "Oh heyyy baby."

Jon's eyes remained closed tight as he listened to Cassie's exuberant hello fade a little. He could hear her joy dying. That... _*&%$^_.

In the background, he could hear Jennifer ever so gently, so quietly, so lovingly telling Cassie:

"Daddy is going to be moving away in a few days. To Maine, honey. He wants to talk to you."


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

Part 2:


_"It pays a lot more, and he says its worth it, leaving... 

With the Wyldwood fire department. He can finally get that investigator job he's always wanted, maybe get a state fire marshal job, then who knows? Maybe move up the federal side..."	_

By the time Jennifer relented and left Cassie alone with the phone, there was a weight settled in the center of Jon's chest. There was silence on the other line, but he knew Cassie was there. The pizza was forgotten, the beer left sitting on the window sill again. He could hear hail, small enough to be sleet, hitting the windows.

Thunder shook the tired little house and rattled the ancient single pane windows, but Jon didn't notice.

"Cassie." The question mark on the end of her name was subtle, barely heard.

"Daddy?" 

Jon's eyes squeezed shut. His daughter's voice had been a choked whisper, hoarse and strangled.

"I know baby. I wanted to..." Jon's own voice threatened to betray the wash of anger and regret he was feeling. Anger at his ex-wife for doing all she could to poison Cassie, to drive a wedge between them. Regret that he hadn't been 'enough' to save his marriage, to keep his family together.

"I just... I wanted to see you to tell you but... not... not like this. I didn't mean... when I said its worth it, I didn't mean you aren't worth staying for. I meant..."

The heavy silence drowned out the raging storm outside again, then a tremulous: "I know. What about Cisco? Maine is a long way off. It's hard on horses... leaving home and their family and friends and... staying in a trailer that long."

Not 'what about us?' 

Not 'what about me?' 

It was there though, and it was as clearly asked as if she'd screamed it at him.

What about me?

"Cisco..." Jon left the dingy kitchen and flipped the light off on the way into the front room. He sat down slowly in a tired old armchair in front of a tired old console t.v.

"Knows it's a long way to go, but... he's okay with it. We talked. He's more worried about you though. He wanted me to ask you if you'll be okay... and y'know. If I could find him a barn buddy. I bet I can find a goat... or a couple of chickens."

He paused long enough to gauge the quiet little sounds on the other end of the phone. Cassie would never stand for Cisco to room with a goat or chickens, but when there wasn't a protest, he upped the stakes a little.

"Besides. Thanksgiving isn't that far off and you'll get to spend it in Maine this year. Home of the first Thanksgiving."

There was a pause, then an exasperated, shaky, sniffled: "Daddy. That was in Massachusetts."

There it was. His gamble had paid off. He could hear it, even if he couldn't see it. It was the first touch of a smile. Behind the tears he knew she was trying to keep him from hearing, he knew it was there. One more roll of the dice couldn't hurt.

"Oh that's right. Maine is where Roanoke was."

Another sigh then a hiccuping gasp that sounded like a half-sob, half-laugh, "Roanoke was in Virginia. You really suck at American History, dad."

"But I'm great at math."

Cassie let out another long, shaking breath. The muffled sound of the phone being juggled around and her wiping her nose came through the speaker, then he heard a snorty little laugh.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"Honey... its going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

"What about Papa Jerry?"

Jon sank back in the chair and swallowed again. The tiny bit of humor that had tried to survive the the conversation grew frail, then faded as he nodded, "I just found out a little bit ago. Just got the letter today."

Not really. It had sat in the mailbox for three days, and now it was soaking wet, but today had been the first day he'd been home to check the mail.

"I'm going to see him in the morning, baby."

"Okay."

"We good?" Good as they could be, all things considered?

"Daddy... Momma... she said... Granma Karen hung herself in the crazy house."

Jon's mouth became a tight line, his face hardened. He felt the blood drain from his face, his arms, his fingers, and settle in his feet and knees.

"She was really sick, Cassie..."

"I tried to ask her about it, but she wouldn't tell me. She just seems real sad about it." 

A pause, then: "She never liked momma, did she?"

"I think she liked her just fine." That was one heck of lie. His mother had never liked Jennifer, and she'd only been 16 when his mom had met her. She'd disliked her immediately. 

Now he understood why. She'd seen through the fantastic smile and flirting, around the curves and perfect hair.

Jennifer was poison, and poison of the worst sort. The kind that worked slow, the kind that few people realized was killing them until it was too late.

She'd tried to tell him. His friends had tried to tell him. Only his father had held his peace and Jon understood why now: He hadn't listened to anyone about her. He wouldn't have listened to his dad either.

"I don't think so." Cassie whispered the words, "Is it true though? Did she... y'know..."

He couldn't keep lying to her. He just couldn't. No matter how indelicate or brutal Jennifer had been, she'd told Cassie the truth. 

"Yeah, baby. Its true." A hard gust of wind slammed into the house and whistled through the windows, then swept away into the night. Outside, the hail had stopped, the rain though... the rain was still hammering down. Jon didn't notice it.

"I think we need to talk about this when you come to Maine, okay?" He took her little breath as a nod of agreement before going on, before changing the subject... kind of.

"Hey, Cassie? Its getting late and I know you have school... and Kay rah tay lessons and a piano recital, ballet practice, and probably an audition for a big movie role tomorrow, so... I probably need to let you get to bed."

There was a little snicker, then a snort from Cassie, "Its jiu jitsu."

"Pfff. I knew that. Okay... let me talk to your mom. We're going to try to figure out when I can see you before I leave out."

"Are you going to yell at her? You aren't, are you?"

"About what, honey?"

A long, heavy pause then: "You're terrible at lying too."

"I'm not going to yell at her. I promise." 

Another doubtful pause followed by: "I love you, daddy."

"I love you too, Cassie-girl." Jon quietly sang out his next words, "Because you're mine..."

"I walk the line." Cassie finished out the tune, "Here's momma. Tell Cisco I miss him, okay?"

"Okay..."

He could tell when the phone changed hands and maybe he was just imagining it, but there was something gloating... smug... triumphant about Jennifer's "What?"

"Why would you tell her that... and like that? Are you _serious_?"

There was nothing but silence, the sort of silence that was colored with a smile he couldn't see. She hadn't cut him off... she was enjoying this. Realizing almost too late she was baiting him to rage on, to say whatever hurtful thing would make him feel better, whatever she could use to paint herself as the victim, he simply stopped. Again he looked at the screen on the phone, then nodded before putting back to his ear.

"You're a piece of work. Good night, Jennifer."

"Goodbye, Jon... and... good luck in Maine."

By the time Jon finally left the chair for bed, it was after 1 am. The pizza was cold, forgotten. The beer had gotten warm, its bottle covered in beads of sweat. The silence in the house was broken only by the pop of the oven as it cooled and the sound of the rain pouring over the metal roof of the house.

Slow poison... She was slow poison and even after 9 years, she was still killing him.

Like cancer.


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

Part 4:


There is a train that's heading straight 
To heaven's gate, to heaven's gate 
And on the way, child and man
And woman wait, watch and wait 
For redemption day​


Jon's bloodshot, tired and washed out eyes watched the first rays of dawn brighten the room he was in. The storm had broken during the night, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, the sun was laying its golden touch across the Texas coast. 

God he was tired. 

By 4 am, he'd given up on trying to sleep. He'd pulled on his jeans, a clean t-shirt, his boots and piled off into his truck. Then he'd headed to the nursing home. Papa Jerry... his father... was in the rehab wing. A stroke had hit him back in the summer. Cassie had been there, so had Jon. They'd been in the house, rounding up dinner, about to go out to the boat shed and have dinner with him by the dock.

They'd found him slumped down, limp and sagging between the outboards and the transom of the fishing boat. A thin grey streak of smoke had still been lifting from the cigarette that had fallen between the toes of his ratty old canvas dock shoes.

And here he was... asleep, with Jon sitting quietly in the corner of the room, head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling or the window. He slept a lot. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes not. Some days were better than others. And every day, the right side of his face sagged as though lifeless, his right arm lay limp at his side.

He looked like some shriveled, grey skinned doll, and it was hard for Jon to be there, hard to look at him. This wasn't his dad. Jerry Morrison, Jon's dad, was full of life, full of foolishness Jon's mother had always said. He wasn't nearly bald on top. His hair, what he had left, wasn't wild and silver. 

Jon's dad was the guy that had been at every football game, watching his son play. He was the guy that had taught Jon how to fish, how to bait a treble hook and take a flounder off that same hook and shovel it into an ice chest in the boat.

Jon's dad was still 45, maybe 50. Not this frail... elderly... looking man, laying helpless in a hospital bed, wearing nothing but a cotton gown, tied on at the neck, with i.v.s in this arm, and the type of horrible bruises that came from using coumadin.

Finally, he made himself look again, made himself try to accept that his father really _was_ the tired, worn out shell in the bed. 

It didn't work.

His eyes shifted to the heart monitor, blipping away contentedly by the bed. He watched the blood pressure numbers a moment, but he didn't really see them. He didn't really see the room, or its mauve walls, or the white cotton blankets that covered his father's body.

He wasn't seeing anything, really.

"Dad. I... don't know what to do anymore." His own voice didn't sound right. It sounded broken and distant. He didn't care. His father couldn't hear him anyway - he was sound asleep, drifting in a place of dreams on a cocktail of drugs.

"She's winning. I... can't work hard enough, give enough, _be_ enough for her. I never could though, could I?" Jon sat forward, elbows on his knees, his thumbs pressed into the corners of his eyes, head lowered, as if he were sitting in church.

"I'm working two jobs, and finishing up the boats, getting them out for you, and... for every extra dime I make, she has them take that much more out of every check. I work to give it to Cassie, and I end up not even able to see her. I can't even get to her soccer games. What kind of dad am I? You never missed a game."

Only the quiet beep of the monitor broke the silence, the peace, of the room.

"I'm losing. And I'm losing her. That's the worst part. Losing Cassie... and now... I got the letter, dad. They hired me."

Jon slumped back in the chair, his head against the wall and went back to staring out the salt grimed window, "I can still change my mind. I can still say no, but... the money? I mean I know its not everything, but... I need to go. I need to get away from Jennifer, from Baytown, from all of this. I just... there's you. There's Cassie. I can't... I don't know what to do. I feel like... I'm swimming with a rock around my neck and... I'm ready to give up. Just stay here, keep treading water till I go under, give her what she really wants. If I go, she'll eat up any extra I can make, and I still won't get to see Cassie-girl. I don't know what to do."

He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so ready to give up. Not when his mother had been locked up, not when she'd died, not when Jennifer had told him tearfully (If you could call it that) at the breakfast table one morning that she was done. That she'd already seen an attorney.

But he'd had his dad through it. He'd had his father to talk him through it, to shine a light in the storm.

"You got this." 

Jon's eyes cracked open, his head turned. The words had been a paper thin, slurred whisper almost lost beneath the sounds of the nurses starting to make their rounds.

In the face of the wrinkled old shell was one eye that was open, not drooping. The lively fire that had always burned in Jerry Morrison's eyes was still there. It wasn't bright, but it was there, looking back at him. His father's left hand twitched. A shaking, thin finger moved as though he were trying to point at Jon.

"She ain't winnin', Jon. She's..." Jerry had to stop to get his breath, and Jon rose to his feet slowly as his father spoke.

"She 'ready lost. Ain't your fight...anymore. Its... Cassie's."

Jon stepped closer to the bed. His father's words were so faint, so weak, so slurred he could barely understand him. 

"Dad?"

"Let Cassie-girl fight... her fight, son." Jerry's good eye tracked his son as he grew closer, then dropped to his fingers as they curled around the railing of the bed, "Be the man she needs to carry her out of the fire when it gets too hot," He looked back up, into his son's eyes, "be... her daddy. 'S the most important job you'll ever have."

"You take that... job. Don't you give her..." He stopped to breathe, to gather some strength, "any ground. Don't you quit being Cassie's daddy."

"Dad, I can't... what about..."

"I'm still your daddy. Tellin' you to go. I'll... be fine. Have you seen the physical... therapy girls? I c'n get some numbers... for ya." His eyes sparked with the foolishness Jon had missed so much, "I'm gonna be just fine. An' if I'm not? Your momma's waiting on me. But I'm still... your daddy."

Jon swallowed hard, choked back the tears threatening to blur his eyes, "When I get there... I'm going to have you moved..."

"I ain't leavin' Texas, son. I came into this world here, I'll go out of it here. Not in some Yankee town in Maine. Won't be buried in soil ain't Texas."

"Okay. I'll move you anyway and when you go, I'll have the casket filled with Texas dirt before I bury your rangy old butt in the ground. That sound okay?"

Jerry's eye darted toward Jon's face again, "Butthole. My kid's... a butthole." The left side of Jerry's mouth curled up in a smile though, despite his words.

"Like father, like son?" 

"Jon?" Jerry's hand lifted. It took all he had left to move it, to make it go where he wanted - to cover Jon's hand on the bed railing. What little strength he had was fast fading, and it was showing.

"Its... been a helluva ride. May not be over yet, but its been a helluva ride." He relaxed back into the bed even more. Sleep was returning, cobwebbing his thoughts, making his words even harder to understand, making it hard to squeeze Jon's fingers, but he did.

"Cassie's... a flower... in th'sidewalk. Be her fire in the rain. No matter where you are... be her daddy."

The heart monitor continued its steady beeping, never once failing as sleep, not death pulled Jerry back under.


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

Part 5 - a little lighter fare. Introducing: Cisco who is sometimes comedy relief.



"Dang, Jon." The old stock trailer shivered and shook, banged around, and rattled as the guy in the nose of it, in the tack storage, poked his head out and looked down the length of the trailer. He was one of those people who could have been 30, or he could have been 40. He could be 6 feet tall, or maybe 6'3". He was both oddly nondescript in appearance and at the same time, wildly attractive. It all just depended on his expression or the way the light was hitting him. His accent wasn't quite right for Baytown though. It still held more than enough southern New Orleans 'Yat' in it to give away his heritage. 

Matthew Casey was originally from Louisiana. He'd moved first to Beaumont, Texas, then to Baytown in 2003. He and Jon had met when Matthew signed on with the Baytown Fire Department. Matt was in the EMS division, he was an EMT that sometimes did double duty by holding his own on the end of hose in turnout gear instead of his EMS uniform. Jon, on the other hand, was a fireman with EMS training who sometimes went on medical emergency runs with Matt in the ambulance. The joke between he and Jon, that wasn't really a joke, was that Jon fished people out of the fire, but Matt was the one that actually saved their lives.

"You're taking more stuff for Cisco than you are for yourself. Blankets... saddle pads... Is that... a coat... for a horse? And... do you think they don't sell latigo in Maine? And how many bits and headstalls do you really need? THIS is the only one you ever use..."

Matt dangled a coffee brown leather headstall off his fingers. It was a simple, one-ear, split rein, curb bit affair. It looked ancient and well used. It showed signs of repairs and the reins weren't nearly as old as the headstall.

"Yeah? Well. I'd like to see how you'd feel about having leather straps with silver stars and turquoise studs and fringe and a matching saddle slapped on you in the middle of August and a bit shoved between your teeth."

"I asked for that once. She said no." Matt did a remarkably good impression of a Rage Face No as he watched as Jon lug a heavy roping saddle and a thick, red wool saddle pad through the trailer to the front compartment.

"It's worth mentioning, she never called me back after that night either. By the way? How old is that saddle? I mean come on. 1994 Team Roping Champion? I thought you played football in high school?"

"I did." Jon dropped the saddle and flipped it up on its horn so it wasn't laying flat, then tucked the stirrups around it before tying it down with a rubber bungee cord so it would flip back down... and lay flat.

"The guy that won this didn't. Bought at the auction when I got Cisco. Same day. Its an Ammerman. They don't make them like this anymore."

"Yeah. You know what else they don't make like that anymore? Ford Mustangs with a 351 Cleveland in them. You know why? Because they were heavy as *&%# and that made them slow and a pain in the butt to mess with."

"And yet they're considered classics now and can't neither one of us afford one. Unless you buy one that's worn out looking and dirty and needs parts replaced. Like this saddle was." Jon shot Matt a grin.

"Touche'. Touche'." Matt ducked back out of the way as Jon shut and latched the gate to the tack storage, then headed back out of the trailer, "But seriously. You either sold, or gave everything away that you have. The hell are you going to sleep on when you get there? Or is the house furnished?"

"Air mattress. I have a sleeping bag and an air mattress. I'll figure the rest out later."

"Meanwhile Cisco will be sleeping in one of those nice Yankee horse barns with the heated stalls and nice clean straw floor? Jesus. You've packed more stuff for the horse and take better care of him than you do yourself."

"Yeah, well. On the plus side, I still have my balls and I won't be surrounded by horny guys in a barn. It's a stud farm. So there's that. Besides, Cisco." Jon rummaged around in an ice chest, dug out a beer for Matt and one for himself, "Doesn't work. And I don't know if you've noticed or not, but he doesn't have opposable thumbs. He also doesn't drive. He can't even put his own shoes on. So he's limited on job opportunities and won't be able to buy more stuff next month when he gets paid..." Jon knocked the cap off his beer by popping the edge of the cap against a trailer slat, then downed at least a third of it, "and... he can't pack his own stuff. So. Someone has to keep up with him and his wardrobe."

Matt stretched and opened his beer the same way Jon had, drank a little more on his first swallow, then waved the bottle around at Jon as he gulped it down, "You still have your balls? I didn't see the jar Jennifer kept them in." 

He gestured toward the dirty white Dodge truck that contained what little belongings Jon was taking to Maine with him, "I was starting to think you gave them back to her the last time she took you to court to modify the child support payments." He took another long drink of the beer and watched Jon from around the bottle, then looked past Jon to Cisco. The quarterhorse was nibbling at grass around a fence post and watching them both with that nonchalant way horses watched people. It meant he was keenly interested in what they were doing and yet not wanting them to know it. 

"He_ is _a freeloading S.O.B. I don't know that I've even seen a horse that lazy, unless you're trying to catch him to ride him... then he looks like a pony express horse. I wouldn't put up with his sorry butt. He's a complete douche."

"Lot of people say that about you, but we're still friends. Jokes about my ex-wife and my balls notwithstanding. And those weren't my balls in the jar. Those are Ryan's. She left them on the fridge when she moved out. Came back for the jar later."

Matt was mid-drink on the beer when Jon drawled out his riposte, and the paramedic choked with laughter, coughed, fought the beer trying to come out his nose, then nodded as he blinked back tears and swiped the beer out from under his nose, "I thought they were pickled eggs. I nearly ate one. And good God I hope we're friends. I mean, I'd hate to tick you off. You know too many Mardi Gras stories about me." Matt's accent thickened intentionally - it was impossible to say Mardi Gras and not use a heavy New Orleans accent, even if you weren't from New Orleans. 

"I'd lose my job... my land lord would kick me out. I'd probably go to jail and have to register on some horrible sex offenders' registry for the rest of my life, and all because girls can shake their boobs for beads but guys can't shake their..."

"That was your fault." Jon's face was starting to hurt from all the laughing and grinning today. Even when they'd struggled and cussed and fought to change a tire on the beat up old trailer, even when Jon realized a few boards in the floor needed replacing and NOW, Matt had managed to make him laugh, to see the brighter side of things. 

"Boobies are legal at Mardi Gras. Dickies are not. You're from there. I'd have thought you'd know that."

"I am, but when I'm on vacation and I drink beer all day... with you... I tend to forget a lot of things. Sometimes for the better of all involved."

"Like that chick named Shannon?"

"Jon. She was out of her mind. I'm talking Single White Female serial killer, stalker crazy. The same can be said of..." Matt started snapping his fingers, "What was her name? Its on the tip of my tongue..." He seemed to grope around, hoping to hit on a name, and as he did, Jon's head started to shake.

"Don't you say it. Don't you do it. Just saying her name..."

"Crystal!"

"...summoned her... CRAP." Jon peeked around the end of the trailer, as though said crazy chick might have actually materialized, "Good God. Be careful with that. You _know_ I almost never got rid of her."

"And I will take the location of her remains to my grave." Matt finished off his beer and tossed it in the back of his own truck, a black Ford, which was parked nearby.

"Okay... seriously." Matt helped himself to another beer and got one out for Jon as his friend finished it.

"This'll be good for you. I'd be lying if I said I'm okay with it. I'm not. But you gotta break that c..."

Jon shot Matt a very real look of warning. He might have grown to hate his ex-wife, but she'd given him one thing that he would never stop loving, never stop worrying about, never turn his back on: Cassie.

"owww. Cow's..." Matt put heavy emphasis on the word cow, "hold on you. I know its hard to go with your dad like this and all... and there's Cassie... but... Jon y'gotta do something for yourself for once. Just this once."

Jon opened his beer and this time downed half of it, then scrubbed his face before glancing back at the empty, tiny little rent house, with its peeling paint, its cracked and duct taped windows - a few of which still had tin foil taped to the inside to keep out the light while Jon slept after a night shift. He was heading out as soon as they loaded Cisco.

In that moment, he realized he wasn't going to miss this place. He was going to miss his father, his daughter, his family at the fire house, but not this place, not Baytown.

The Baytown he was going to miss was the one he'd grown up in, the one he'd gone to high school in, the one he'd met, he thought, the love of his life in.

That Baytown was long behind him. Matt was right, it was time to break Jennifer's hold on his life. Nine years after their divorce, it was time to move on. 

"Yeah, well. Before I do that..." His eyes cut to Cisco, who was now very aware that he was about to be the subject of conversation. Somehow, horses knew that sort of thing.

"We gotta catch Butthead over there. Not leaving without my horse."

"WE?" Matt's brows crawled up as he realized 'we' meant him and Jon both.

"Ggggoddd being friends with you comes with a price, doesn't it?" He finished his beer, tossed the bottle in the air. It landed in the bed of his truck with a satisfying sound of beer bottle on beer bottle, "If I get kicked or stomped... I'm sending you the bill. And you better kiss it and make it all better too. And I'm going to blackmail you with the pictures."

And true to his reputation, the only time Cisco was fast and surefooted, was when Jon actually NEEDED him caught. 

Two hours and a promise from Matt that he'd keep an eye on Jon's dad later, Jon put his truck in drive. Matt followed him out the drive and down the dirt road. The sun had already gone down and Jon had four and a half days to get to Wyldwood, Maine.

He would arrive a day late, near midnight on October 31st.


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## knightrider (Jun 27, 2014)

It's really good. I am really liking your story! Thanks for sharing!


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## AtokaGhosthorse (Oct 17, 2016)

This is out of one of the actual stories, not just backstory for the character. It's actually part of a chapter that deals with a group of missing kayakers who were abducted by a mysterious group of people several days before a stalled tropical storm hits the Texas coast. Not to spoil the story, but there are urban legends about 'time thinnys' in Texas. This chapter played with that legend. It back-dates the above posts by about a year in terms of the written timeline for the character. I cut out a few parts entirely because this was co-authored and while I don't think for one minute my writing partners would mind my sharing, it's a matter of respect for them and they aren't available right this moment to ask their permission. 

*************

_“The forest did not tolerate frailty of body or mind. Show your weakness, and it would consume you without hesitation.” ― Tahir Shah, House of the Tiger King_​
The haze of dust, kicked up during the night by the steady stream of trucks and the trailers they pulled, helped paint the Texas sunrise in shades of brilliant, fiery color. Texas EquuSearch had more man power, more equipment, and more funds and resources than all but the largest State and Federal organizations. They were privately funded and had been founded in the mid-80s in response to the vast number of people who simply disappeared along the Texas coast. Horses, airboats, ground penetrating radar, atvs, even drones and a helicopter were part of their arsenal. They were arriving in vast numbers, and mingled among them were 'the locals'.

Among those locals, among the parking trucks and banging, thumping horse trailers, was one very dirty, white, extended cab Dodge truck. Behind it was a beat up, rust stained stock trailer. Its canvas top had seen better days. The blaze-faced bay inside had seen better too, but Cisco still had many more good days ahead of him. Head up, ears forward, he watched the controlled chaos as someone in a deputy's uniform motioned the driver of the Dodge truck, Jon Morrison, to back on up. When the deputy held his fist up, the truck stopped. Cisco swayed as the trailer stopped too.

Somewhere in the line up of trailers, one Aaron Lopez was riding shotgun in his father's old Ford truck. Hector was pulling an actual horse trailer only slightly nicer than Jon Morrison's stock trailer. The flaxen tail of a palomino hung over the back doors, the animal within also curious and trying to look at the goings-on outside.

Pancho had been brought from Gonzales, Texas by Hector. It was a three hour drive and Aaron's father had loaded the beast up as soon as he'd gotten the call. Aaron's beat up saddle and the rest of his tack were in the bed of the truck, along with a well used set of leather saddlebags, and a lariat.

By the time Jon had Cisco backed out of the trailer, had tied him to it, and was tightening the girths down, Hector had put his truck in park and his son had swung the door open. A pair of boots hit the ground, and the legs they were attached to were covered in brown leather chaps and blue jeans. A long sleeved cotton shirt covered Aaron from the waist up, and on his head was a ball cap emblazoned with the King Ranch logo. It was stained from sweat and dirt, even blood. It was the cap of a working man. It was Aaron's and he'd had it since he was in high school.

Jon, focused on his horse and only peripherally aware of the other volunteer unloading his horse, completely missed that he was the twenty-something state trooper that had escorted EMS to the site the day before. In fact, even if he had done more than a cursory nod of greeting, he probably wouldn't have recognized Trooper Lopez out of uniform. What finally got Jon's full attention was when the palomino horse being backed out of the other trailer let out the craziest sound: It was a donkey's bray and a horse's whinny, with a little bit of goat scream at the beginning and the end of it.

Jon's head lifted and he shoved his hat back. Blue eyes looked over Cisco's back at an animal that wasn't a horse at all.

Pancho was a mule and a mule every bit as large as Cisco, maybe a little taller. It was only then, when the young man leading the mule looked Jon in the eye, nodded and drawled out "Mornin' Morrison..." did Jon realize who Aaron was.

"Trooper Lopez." A broad smile broke out across Jon's face, "I mistook you for a vaquero. Mornin."

"Only on my days off, and only when my papi and tios need help back home," Aaron nodded next toward the shorter, lighter built man with him.

Jon offered the man who was surely Aaron's father a respectful nod, then he eyed the mule curiously. Aaron's grin was growing wider.

"This is my dad, Hector. Dad, this is one of the Baytown guys, Jon Morrison." Hector smiled and dipped his head, "Buenos Dias, Senior."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"And this..." Aaron began tying the mule's lead rope to the side of the trailer, "...is Pancho... his brother is Lefty."

"Pancho and Lefty?" Jon brows rose as his own grin broadened.

"Si, Senior Morrison." Hector reached over the side of the truck bed and hauled Aaron's saddle out, "Pancho es una buena mula. Lefty? No se puede confiar en él.*"

"Yeah, I wouldn't trust a mule named Lefty either." Jon, laughing now, went back to checking Cisco's tack and the contents of his saddlebags while Aaron began saddling Pancho up.

A whistle pulled attention to the search leader for orders.

"OKAY FOLKS..." A man, standing on a flatbed trailer laden with cases of water and other necessaries, held up a park map, "We need people on foot and on horse... and... mule..." He grinned in Aaron and Pancho's direction, "to work the trails. They are clearly marked with signage. We have maps available, I don't want anyone leaving here without one, maybe two. I don't want anyone leaving here alone - this is a large, dangerous group of people. I want each group to have at least one armed member of the party. We have a registration log, I want your names, next of kin, who to call in an emergency, a description of your animal, your tag number, what you asked Santa Claus for last year..."

He paused for the soft round of expected snickers and snorts, "You get the picture. We want you safe, we want you alert, we want you in and back out. ONE overnight is all we have time for people. The storm is still stalled, but we don't want you risking it. Today and tomorrow is all we got. Be back here by dark tomorrow at the latest. Don't make me have to send anyone out after you. Now then... We'll get you sorted into groups, you'll each be assigned a radio... and everyone loved playing with walkie talkies as kids, right? We have an information packet on the missing people, on the park itself, and on the wildlife within it. Be careful, they do have alligators here, and they do bite. Watch your equipment. We've had reports of watches and compasses going wonky, some weird bleed through on the radios. Be aware of where you are on the trails, where the sun is in case you get lost. If you run up on a barbed wire fence, DO NOT CROSS IT. The park is fenced on its far boundaries. If you get over on the other side of it, you're on private land and we may never find you. Stay on this side of the fence and we'll at least know you're still in the park. Okay, folks. I want the first of us on the trails in an hour. Let's move."

In less than an hour, the searchers on foot and on horseback were sorted into groups of no less than ten, and they mixed armed, off duty law enforcement and other people trained to carry firearms with those who were not. Jon found himself sorted in with the Trooper and his mule, a Deputy, and a Game Warden, among others. The last person to be added was a Texas Ranger who seemed to know Aaron from a previous encounter of some sort.

Having shown his Hunter's Safety Card and Lifetime Hunting License to one of the officials and filling out the registration forms, he was handed a packet in a gallon sized ziplock bag, a radio, and assigned an orange vest with reflective tape on it and a number on the back. With Cisco's packs loaded and secured, his Judge pistol loaded and strapped to the saddle and a simple Marlin 30-30 in its scabbard, they trailed along at the back of the group as they entered the woods. 

More than ever, Cisco dragged his feet. He even stumbled two or three times. Jon had to nudge him with his spurs when the horse completely stopped in the middle of the trail. Several others were having no better luck... something had the animals concerned, and worried horses were never a good sign.

It was almost as if the animals knew what happened here, and knew what might happen again.

They didn't want to go.

Jon, as Cisco began to move forward again, had to wonder who was smarter... the horses? Or the people demanding they enter the swamps.



*Pancho es una buena mula. Lefty? No se puede confiar en él. - Pancho is a good mule. Lefty? You cannot trust him. (A play on the song Pancho and Left by Willie Nelson)


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