1st Novel

Three Long Days

2nd Novel

Soul Intentions

3rd novel

Soul Directive

4th novel


Fortunate Soul

5th novel


Critter Car

Frickin feathers wasa flying everywheres. Ole lady Platt’s prized bull stomped right in fronta my house. I hate dat stinkin beast. That’s why I’m da one who called Harry. And he weren’t so happy, neither. I dared pulled Harry Johnson away from his weekly poker game wit dem boys ta crank up da town fire truck.

Sally Desmond already bin by ta git a story. I dun known Sally since she was knee high to a tumble weed. She used ta do her schooling wit my little girl, Amy. It got me a thinkin. I ain’t seen Sally since my Amy run off with dat fast talking rodeo clown, four years ago. Dang city slickers. They come here wit their fancy words and fake smiles and just go on a takin and a takin from our town.

Sally still looks the same wit her carrot top and freckles. She finally did git dem braces off dem pearly whites. Yeah, I read her stories in da paper, but I ain’t never was specting her ta be sipppin my wife’s famous lemonade on our porch, writing bout me. She told me what I seen would be da news for weeks in da Green Valley Gazette. You’d think da news peoples could find sumtin more interesting ta write about den what I seen.

Me, I’m Virgil Tippens. Me and the Mrs. been livin in our house for more years than I can count. Da Mrs. don’t want me counting that high no ways. She says, some numbers best not known. I still think she looks perfect as she did when we met on da hayride, when we was both youngings. But some women git their britches in a wad when you talk bout birthdays. Go figer.

I’m a bettin by now you a wantin to know what I seen. Well, it all started two weeks ago when this man shows up wit more erl in his hair than you git from a lube job down at da geerage. Plus he’s a wearin some tight blue jeans like you see in a girly magazine, and a pink shirt wit a horse on it. What kinda self respecting man wears a pink shirt and puts erl in his hair, I ask you.

So this girly man comes a walking up my front stoop wantin a, “moment of yer time.” He tells me he dun rented the Parker place fer a month. He’s come all the way from Hollywood, California. He’s a fixin to write a story bout us folks here in town. I tell him ain’t much to tell. We just friendly types making a living and won’t make no good story fer him, no how. He went on bout his business.

Anyways, a few hours ago, I was down shootin da breeze wit my cuzin Ernie and his boy, who own da local geerage. That same writer man comes a pulling into Ernie’s place wit his cell phone glued to his hand, and a yammering on bout some light going on the dashboard in his fancy imported car.

Ernie’s son says some city folk drives and types on their phones at the same time. Don’t seem so much safe to my mind. But anyways, the writer man’s dang car had a tiger or a leopard on the side. I ain’t never seen critters on a car before. Ernie tells me it’s a jaguar, and he seen one when some man widda British accent come a driving inta his geerage one day last summer.

Writer man wants ta know if Ernie could take a look under da hood. Ernie ain’t much good at seein after a few beers, but he took a look. Tells da man he needs some fresh erl. So da man leaves da car and Ernie’s boy gives em a ride back to da Parker place. I’m a watching Ernie trying ta figure out what’s under dat hood. I tried ta splain to Ernie dat brake fluid weren’t da same as erl, even in fancy critter cars. But after too many beers, Ernie don’t listen much ta nobody. So I went on home and sat on my porch.

The Mrs. brung me some of that ice cold lemonade a hers. I was a rockin in my favorite chair, listenin to da red headed stranger, Willie Nelson, when it all happened. That fancy car wit da critters was a coming up on da light, de same time da Charlie’s Chicken truck was a heading from ta other di-rection. The light turned a red, and that writer man’s car just a kept on a barreling like he ain’t never seen a traffic light where he’s from in Cal - I forn – I - A.

The writer man’s car went a swerving from the chicken truck’s back end right inta ole lady Platt’s fence holding her cows. I went a running over to git dat man from Holly-weird outta his critter car but I was too late. It dun blown up! More feathers wassa flying, the cows wenta running and I was knocked clear ta my hind end. My ears are a still a ringin too.

I went back inside ta call Harry ta git that fire truck down here. I was bout to help Charlie outta his truck till that dang bull made its way ta my front yard. I waited fer Harry ta show up and some a dem boys ta git that overgrown cow back where it belonged.

So it all happened just like I told dat freckled faced Sally. Dang city slickers. They got no respect for our laws. And they sure don’t know how ta drive like us country folk do. But I am gonna ask Ernie if he can fish them red leather seats from da critter car for my pickup truck. That is, if they ain’t a blown up too much.