The Big Fresh
Ruby hijacks the hearse containing his wife’s body and winds up in Sunbridge Psychiatric and Rehabilitation Center, where he meets John Carter, who claims to be Christ—and maybe Ruby’s brother. All well enough, Ruby thinks, for he’s managed to sneak off the compound and fall in love with Lisa. But what about that dark cloud that has hovered overhead for weeks, ever since John Carter was admitted?
ISBN: 978-1-931982-89-4 Library Binding $25.00 Sale $12.50
ISBN: 978-1-931982-90-0 Trade Paper $14.95 Sale $7.50
Scott Morgan was born and raised in rural North Carolina in the small town of West End. He spent a few years in the army national guard as a combat medic and now lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, with his wife Shannon. Scott plays guitar and sings in a band called Memphis, which plays many of his original songs. Scott has written several novels. This is his second published one.
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It was my mother who asked me one time, she said, “Greg, how do you get yourself into so much trouble”
“Simple,” I told her, “by trying to get myself out of trouble.”
She never allowed herself to understand that. That is one of the reasons why she is dying of an old man’s disease.
But she was right about one thing. She used to say, “When it’s hot it’s hot, when it’s cold it’s cold, and when you’re not thinking about either it doesn’t matter.”
To this day I don’t know why I left Santa Cruz so willingly. Then again, I do. I mean, it was bound to happen. As lucky or as unlucky as it may sound. The odds worked themselves out perfectly. Boom! First there was a cloud of smoke and then there was Cindy
Cindy had a way of making things go around. Take the world for instance. She could spin it freely from her fingertips. She was a beautiful freak of a girl with dyed blonde hair that bounced with her every move. And she loved to move. More than that, she loved to dance. Every Friday night I would go watch her. Those were the most expensive dates of our short-lived relationship. A tally of what her love eventually cost is unnecessary and altogether impossible, but I tell you, once it started I could not stop: I fed her till the calf got fat then took her home. She said only one thing the first time we made love and it was this: Relax.
“Why?” I asked her.
There was no reply, only a smile, and we went on to have two simultaneously massive orgasms. And, of course, it was Love.
She left my house three days later wearing the same clothes she came in with and returned that afternoon with all of her stuff. In a phone call from my mother I tried to explain that nothing moves as fast as true instantaneous love; and I went on to explain the concept of Spontaneous Love, which is similar to spontaneous combustion.
“Yes it’s a fire,” I said.
“No, not a real fire. A metaphorical one.”
“No, it doesn’t burn.”
I was high at the time and found nothing gloomy or foreshadowing about the conversation; on the contrary, it felt alive and wonderful and I was all for it. “Great,” I said, “keep up the good work.”
In hearing this, Cindy became fired up herself and called her folks and proclaimed her spontaneity of love, and they begged her to stop the nonsense and come home but she laughed and told them that home was an overrated concept derived from fairy tales. “I can make a home out of a cardboard box,” she said laughingly into the phone.
There were a few more words, all bordering on the inconceivable irrationalities of the moment, then she hung up. That was it.