He resumed climbing, knowing there was an arch in the sandstone wall at the top where he could rest and cool down. The cotton-tree branch served him well as a walking stick, but his bruised hip still ached with each step. His water bottle knocked against his other hip. He could tell from the sloshing sound that it was almost empty.

It was terrifying, being hunted. Gerald was ferocious in his hatred, his fury, his righteousness. Matthew had witnessed his fly-off-the-handle reactions to any number of minor affronts. And now? He’d lost his mind, coming after Matthew this way. The whole town knew that Gerald should have been locked up for good years ago.

Matthew could only hope that Gerald missed the turn-off and stayed on the main trail. If Matthew could make it to the arch, conserve his water, and rest for a few hours, he could make his way back down at sunset. With any luck, the police would have picked up crazy-ass Gerald by then.

A noise made him stop abruptly. Footsteps? Perhaps it was the echo of his own, bouncing off the surrounding crags. He remained rooted to his spot, listening intently.

There. Again. His already rapid heartbeat revved up with adrenalin. He twirled around.

A small animal darted behind some scrub, its bushy striped tail signaling its hiding place. A ringtail cat. Matthew wondered what the nocturnal critter was doing out and about in the blazing daylight. Poor little guy. Maybe he was sick. Matthew loved animals. He’d do anything he could to help God’s innocent creatures. But not here and not now.

He pressed the T-shirt against his forehead again and winced. At least it had stopped bleeding. One foot in front of the other, he told himself. Almost there. And then he saw the arch, and his plodding quickened to scrambling as he maneuvered his sore, exhausted body onto the arch floor.

Breathing deeply, he sat on a stack of smooth stones. I’m safe now, he thought, protected from that maniac. He sipped some water. The shade rejuvenated him. He stood up and stretched, feeling confident that the worst was over. Gerald wouldn’t find him. He teared up with relief and wiped his eyes.

Matthew pulled his Glock out of the back waistband of his shorts and placed it on the ground. He’d have to find a good place to hide it, or lose it forever.

Hell, Gerald should be thanking him for killing his wife. She was such a bitch.

But now they all knew better. He wasn’t going to hurt that girl. He loved her. And the gun? Turned out it was empty by the time Lynn shot him. He’d fired bullets into the air, that’s all.

When she got home that night, she poured herself three fingers of bourbon and went outside to the patio. The night was warm, but she was shivering. She couldn’t get the scene out of her head.

That girl. Running to the edge of the roof. Looking down at the crumpled body on the sidewalk below. Then her scream, as piercing as a coyote’s howl.

Lynn took a large swallow as tears ran down her cheeks. She would never forget watching the girl jump and hit the sidewalk, right next to her dead boyfriend. Two broken, bloody lovers.

“Honey?” Martin called.

She didn’t answer.

Snakeberry Mamas: Words from the Wild

by Mary Alice Dixon

    In Snakeberry Mamas, Mary Alice Dixon’s words from the wild conjure an Appalachian landscape of lust, where sex, song, and witchy women charm the reader with chant. From the crossroads of Witcher Way Holler to the waters of Hungry River, these poems carry you into a magic world of owl-women, dandelion girls, and the memories of dead mothers alive in the heartwood of trees. In these liminal places grief makes knife blades of red pickled eggs; a goddess offers salvation in tongue of fire; a hellfire-and-brimstone suffragette shares a recipe for britches with balls. Mary Alice Dixon makes poetry that muses mountains and maps gardens you will never want to leave.

"Mary Alice Dixon casts a luminous eye on the hardscrabble sacred—braiding grief, grit, and grandmotherly magic into song. These are poems of invocation and inheritance, rooted in the red clay and mythos of mountain women who birth themselves from “bloodroot” and "fire.” Dixon writes with fierce tenderness and hard-earned clarity, inviting us into a world where “owl women brush you with wishbones” and “the moon bleeds” our names. This is Appalachian lyricism at its most incantatory, subversive, and deeply alive." — AE Hines, author of Adam in the Garden and Any Dumb Animal

  www.maryalicedixon.com. Available from Amazon, or order it from your local independent bookseller.

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