Moon Time: Prior Fields

close-up-dolly-shot-of-a-vintage-record-player-playing-a-vinyl-record-rack-focus_4gvh-cljg__F0013.png

Prior Fields: eighteen miles north of Hamady

 Deleterious Estates

 A Change Is Gonna Come quivered under the needle of her dead dad’s timeworn record player. She ignored the annoyance and applied pink tinted gloss to her pouted lips. The trailer park boys all thought she was pretty, Royce with the rose gold hair, even though she barely filled her B cup brassier, and possessed the curves of a gardener’s beanpole.

“Sure,” the popular boys had often said, “you ain’t got much of a body, but your face is fuckin’ gorgeous.”

At the age of fourteen and seven months, she had finally matured, and the debased boys of Deleterious Estates could all kiss off. She checked her womanly look, and smiled.

Suck my cock, mouthed her reflection. Royce was feeling mighty proud of herself as she stood before the full length mirror and bled.

The record finally skipped hard enough to grab her full attention; she stepped away from her image in a huff, and replaced Sam Cooke with The Mamas and the Papas. No Salt on Her Tail wailed over the speakers, and she danced about, allowing the lyrics to seep into her bone marrow.

“I’m a woman now, motherfuckers,” Royce said aloud as she spritzed her wrists with eau de cheapo. She’d always admired the types of girls Garrett ran around with—they all smelled like menstruation, Rave hair spray, and drugstore parfum.

Garrett was a good big brother, violently protective of Royce’s virtue. He was also a hypocrite. Garrett had once been notorious for making it with most of the girls in the trailer park—girls with equally defensive brothers. Sometimes Royce felt sorry for him, missing out on dates with Melissa while he drove a HEMTT wrecker through Iraq; but mostly, she just worried about him being trapped by sand and sun and bullets and bombs.


He’d affixed a lock to the bedroom door the day he left. The Ricker had never touched his sister, true; but Garrett had frequently caught the boozer looking in on her with wild eyes while she pored over homework or danced to oldie records. Because she was pretty, Royce with the rose gold hair, and Rick was growing tired of his old lady.

“Promise to keep this door locked, always,” he’d told her. “Especially when you go to bed. And don’t leave this room at night unless the fuckin’ trailer catches on fire. Ya hear me?”

“I promise. Thank you, Garrett.”

“Don’t look at me like that, kid. I’ll be back before ya have the chance to miss me.”

Royce bit her bottom lip, and admitted, “But I miss you already.”

“Shut up, will ya? When I get home, I’m getting my own place. And you’re gonna come live with me.”

“What will Mom say?” Royce really didn’t give a good goddamn.

Neither did Garrett. “Who fuckin cares? I’m tired of sharing a room with my little sister, and I sure as hell ain’t leaving ya here!” His dark irises appeared to shudder, and he hissed, “Let Mom and the Ricker rot alone in this joint. Screw ‘em, ya know? Maybe we’ll just pack up and move back to Michigan.”

“Right on.” She wrapped her vine-like arms around Garrett’s neck, ignoring the car horn that hailed him.

“Gotta go, kid. I’ll write ya when I can.” He picked up his duffel bag and slung it over a sturdy shoulder. “Don’t take no shit.”


Royce lay down on her bed, and for a moment imagined she was living in a reeking barracks someplace hotter than a tin box in Texas.

She repositioned her lanky body so that she could press her bare feet against the window screen. Orange-pink light unfurled from the horizon and traveled through the window to kiss her freckled face. The August sun was setting, and Royce wished a childish wish for a cool night.

The sky opened its humid maw in reply, and exhaled a gust of spiteful laughter.

Goddamn Texas.


 

Royce with the Rose Gold Hair © 2019 Kindra M. Austin/All Rights Reserved.

Royce with the Rose Gold Hair (excerpt)

il_570xN.1600958037_ng96.jpg

1

Nighttime for Hamady

Hamady: Red Oak County Seat

Hill Gates

 

There’s something discomforting about a steady creaking of taut rope rubbing against the bark of a sturdy tree branch—say the rope of a tire swing in use. When the ceaseless sound springs through nighttime breezes at twelve in the morning, it’s downright unnerving.

It’s only Jess, snuck out again to meet her boyfriend.

Millie was quite fond of her young neighbor, Jessica May Simon; she’d often caught the girl with Kyle Lubbock under the big oak in the center of the grove. Jess’s father was awful mean, and Millie was a nosy-body who did whatever she could to keep Mr. Simon’s belt far away from his only daughter’s backside.

Such a stupid girl. Stupid in love, I guess.

Millie abandoned the bed she shared with her husband, and slipped her feet into a pair of moccasins.

Robert rolled over, and yawned. “Really, sweetheart, maybe that girl deserves for her daddy to find out. Just sayin!”

“Please, Robby. You know what would happen to Jess.”

Awww, hell, Mills.” He flung off the bed covers. “Want me to go with you?”

“You go on to sleep, Love. I’ll take Shamrock. She likes the late night air, I think.” Then she let out a whistle. “C’mon, old girl. We’re going for a walk.”

Millie Hamady-Williams and the Doberman-Shepherd marched out onto the lamp-lit street; they crossed the cul-de-sac, and then quick-stepped through Hill Grove, guided by a pocket-sized flashlight. The creaking grew louder and sharper as they neared the center, but Shamrock wasn’t bothered by the sound; she remained focused on the voices that escaped Millie’s ears. Poor Millie—she was slipping.

“I knew it, Shammy,” Millie breathed, relieved. “Wait.” She stopped a moment and watched Jessica Simon swing on the tire, alone. “She’s crying. Something’s happened.”

Shamrock spoke low, but Millie didn’t understand.

“C’mon, Shammy.” She took one step forward, but the dog wouldn’t obey. “Do I need to start leashing you? Come.”

Shamrock stood her ground, and peeled back her lips. She’d not once shown aggressive teeth to Millie in all the years they’d shared. Millie misinterpreted the warning, and as she opened her scolding mouth wider, something blunt landed hard upon her head. The last voice she heard before entering blackness, was a wrathful howl.


Millie could feel the layers of tape wrapped around the base of her neck and covering her mouth, as well as the zip-ties fastened around her wrists and ankles, all before she’d even opened her eyes. Her head lay heavy in Jessica’s lap.

Where’s Shammy? Maybe she’s gone for Robby!

“I’m sorry, Millie,” Jessica wept. “My daddy made me do it. He made me get you to come out here.”

Millie heaved, and rolled herself free from the quaking lap. She kept on rolling as the sweet girl pleaded.

“Please forgive me. Please, Millie.” Yes, Jessica kept on begging as her awful mean daddy stalked her friend, chiding, with a ready pillowcase.

“No law greater than the Lord’s. I’m only tryin to uphold that law, Millie Hamady. Never mind that I’m an earth-bound lawman, this is my duty as a God fearing man. We’ve been tryin and tryin to get rid of your lot, and by God, we will.”


There’s something sinister about the sound of taut rope rubbing against the bark of a sturdy tree branch—say the rope of a hangman. When the ceaseless sound springs through nighttime breezes at twelve-something in the morning, it’s a threat of things to come.

© 2019 Kindra M. Austin

Candice Louisa Daquin’s Review of For You, Rowena

IMAG1077


For you Rowena – Kindra M. Austin

Review by Candice Louisa Daquin

I’ll begin by saying, it’s not easy to write a review of a book that you don’t want anyone to know the twists and turns of, because then what do you write about? With this novel I feel almost possessive, usually when you read a novel you really want others to read, you share what you most liked about it, but with a suspenseful and taut thriller that’s incredibly hard to achieve without giving key ingredients away. The reason this would be so devastating is that this novel builds brick by brick and so to read it out of sequence or know anything of what is to come, would spoil the crescendo.

Instead let’s talk about what I can make mention of without any spoilers. If you haven’t read a novel or poem by Kindra Austin then you may not know she’s a woman who absolutely doesn’t hold her punches. Think back 100 years, women couldn’t and wouldn’t do that, but even now, sometimes there is an apologetic politeness or restraint in how women describe the world. When you read someone who is willing to just BE on the page, then you know you have found the truth.

What is truth in fiction? Truth is reading the novel breathlessly and then when you put it down finished, you have emptiness, a feeling of wanting to go back, find the characters again, and inhabit them once more. Truth is relating so deeply to the carved souls of those people written on a page, that they become hyperreal to you. Just like Cathy and Heathcliff were to their generation of readers, we’ve moved on and we can use profanity and be honest about our frustrations as women; we can talk about sex and anger and rage and emotion and do so at a deeper level than we could when we were censored.

Women writers were really censored? You bet they were. And those who did speak truths did so through oblique metaphor rather than carnage on a page. Male writers however had many years of spilling it before women could join the fray and as such, they established themselves as the first of their generation to really ‘tell it like it is’ and women were usually not even part of the conversation. I’m not men-bashing by stating this, but women labored under a longer societal pressure to conform and behave and when they were freed, well fiction like this was born.

Are we talking Capote wearing a dress? By no means. A woman’s truth may be as visceral but it’s entirely different. The emotional landscape is vivid in an intensely feminine way, positively reflective, it goes deeper. The smut and sordidness of life may be equally explained but where a woman can be often two dimensional in male authors work, a woman can explode and show all her layers when a woman writes her.

Lately I’ve been fortunate enough to read some excellent male authors who did sterling jobs of creating female characters that I as a woman could relate to, but this is the first novel I’ve read in some time where I literally crawled beneath the skin of the two female lead characters. If I look up now, I may see them sitting at the table with me, I will smell them as I leave the room, and hear them laughing. They are so uncannily present I believe, it would be challenging for a man to write them with that much alacrity. Just as I could not write a man as well as some of the male writers I know. Does that limit the female and male author to their respective genders? Absolutely not. It simply gives a woman an opportunity to present female characters so fleshed out and present that its astonishing, in a world where male authors are still the dominant force (especially in the thriller genre).

Speaking of genres, I expected this novel to be a thriller of sorts, a psychological mystery. But it really defies any labeling in part because it is wickedly original and flies in the face of being nailed down as one thing or another. I read some female written gothic fiction once that almost reminded me a little, but still didn’t have its edge. At once disturbing, and familiar, you are not sure whether you want to run or continue to read, but you end up reading because of course you do, that’s inevitable. You’re a thing possessed.

I start a lot of novels and put them down, by the first fifty pages I am bored and don’t care what happens to the characters. So often that heady MFA format and predictable collection of characters (the genius who is dysfunctional, the bad-ass girl who happens to be gorgeous) are too routine. When reviewing a book you obviously can’t put it down even if it bores you so it’s always a fear reading a book that it may end up to be insufferable. This wouldn’t be the case here; if I had every novel ever published to read, I’d still want to read For you Rowena. Maybe the simplest way of reviewing this book is to tell you why.

For you Rowena is among other things, a love story, the kind you won’t be expecting and haven’t yet experienced. It has elements that all of us who have ever been caught emotionally in more than one allegiance will understand. In that, it is a very classic tale like Anna Karenina because we, all of us are suckers for love stories with tragic and painful experiences that we can relate to our own love histories, and those that go beyond anything we have experienced we live vicariously with, because ultimately, would anyone be as interested in reading a love story that has no tribulation and only happiness? Alas we are creatures of disturbance and as such, we demand emotional upheaval and not just calm waters. I’m not sure why that is, but an author worth her salt will need to ‘bring it’ and Austin brings it plenty. Hell, she sets it on fire and then invites you to dine on the embers.

Aside that beckoning lure, For you Rowena is also a masterful psychological expose of what makes us humans tick, emotionally. Something few of us really understand without referencing other experiences and looking back in hindsight. Austin gets the emotional jungle we live in, what we crave and we destroy and how we hurt those we love and we do things that make no sense but at the time they are what sustain us. Austin presents us with people we can peer into and discover things about ourselves, sometimes disquietingly. Her characters are shockingly realistic, at the same time there is a fantasy overlaying that and a mystical beauty to Austin’s descriptions of the world about her, which creates a deft juxtaposition between narration, description and dialogue.

Immediately after finishing, my first thought was how visual For you Rowena was. I could literally SEE the scenes and the characters as if they existed on film. It takes a lot to paint so vividly the entirety of a story, not just a realistic dialogue but the full fleshing of person’s you’ve created and then manipulate those creations into coaxing the reader into a sympathetic lasting relationship. Often times you can walk away from a character, you can say ‘I really don’t care what happens’ but that’s impossible here. It is equally impossible NOT to relate to their respective trajectories and the arc the story takes, you are sucked in and kept there, holding your breath until the end.

It would do no good to quote from For you Rowena because everything is within a context and doesn’t survive on its own. That is the intensity of the write, and to say this is simply about love or relationships or murder or desperation or frustration would in no way reveal the heart of this novel. As with any well written novel that stands the test of time, it is the relationship formed with the central characters, our sympathies, anger, and emotional investment that define our impression of the novel as a whole. Does it stand out in a literary sense? I believe it does, because Austin knows the nuance of novel writing requires that fine balance of character versus scene versus dialogue and she gracefully navigates the reader through a very intense hate/love storyline without once losing us.

On a personal note, any of us who have loved passionately and been unsure of our decisions can really sink our teeth into this tale, as Austin presents the quixotic ficklety of human nature, its treacheries, its alliances, and ultimately, its surfaces and depths. I wrote four pages of notes as I read, but I used nothing of them in my review, because they were more my impressions formed from the gut-punch of this book than something I could usefully employ. The ruin and recovery of people is written in the same intoxicating quality as I would expect to find in any memorable novel, adding only a modern flourish. Indeed there is even symbolism, redolent in the significance of broken things, and small observations that speak of loss.

Will it be a novel for everyone? I’m sure some will find the ugly nature of passion disquieting, but more likely there is something missing in all of us that we can discover in For you Rowena. If you have ever had a terrible ache, or shame, and not known how to articulate it, or understood yourself, what led up to its creation, this novel will explain those attachments, as it will bring you right to the edge of understanding how someone can kill. The horror of that and its shocking banality is vividly captured by a writer who can wield a psychological intuitiveness within her characters that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Perhaps when you have read this you will see why I cannot speak at length about those characters and that story, just as we cannot casually open Pandora’s box. A novel that bewitches us will invariably defy breaking into its composite pieces, it works as if by magic, though the skill required to make those pieces harmonize and fit together is invisibly sewn into every page.

Plainly put, I loved reading this novel. It created in me such an admiration for its authoress and a real fired up passion to find more books that gave me that bequeathed thrill. I found nothing predictable about it, and everything original. For you Rowenaliterally grabbed me by the throat and held me until the reckoning, and what a reckoning it was.