Over four thousand words on
MARSH MONSTER today! Great start. Here's a tad of what I wrote:
Chapter 1: Rumor Has It “Whataya mean?” asked Dallas.
Dad drove the rental van down Hwy 59/20 just south of Birmingham, Alabama. A gentle hum from the tires on the pavement came in through the windows, which were cracked to let in an evening breeze—a futile effort to quell the lingering southern heat and humidity. Dad was into fuel economy and only used the AC on rare occasions—like on days when people were known to spontaneously combust, which was extremely uncommon.
“I mean…well…I don’t know what I mean,” he said looking at us in the rearview mirror, “That’s just what the reports are saying.”
“You’re telling me,” I said wiping the sweat from my forehead with my T-shirt sleeve, “that now the reported sightings of a ‘swamp monster,’” indicating quote marks with my fingers, “are more frequent and..”
“Yes, Pete, it appears so.”
We were on our trip back from DC and Langley. We’d been up to the capitol to attend Acquire the Fire*—an awesome youth event—and we’d had the opportunity to tour the White House and CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. We’d been invited after Bart, my best friend, and I had uncovered and thwarted a biological terrorism plot in the bayous near our hometown of Houma, Louisiana.
Carla sighed, crossing her arms. I put my arm around her and pulled her closer, away from Reed who was sleeping with his head against the van’s door window, drool seeping out of the corner of his mouth.
Bart’s dad, who was a game warden, turned from his captain’s chair on the passenger side of my dad, and assured, “I just need to stop in near Honey Island Swamp and see what’s up, okay?”
Reed sucked in on his drool with a snort and a twitch.
“Ewh!” exclaimed Carla. I chuckled and, lifting my hand from Carla’s shoulder, smacked Reed on the back of his head.
“Aliens!” awoke Reed with a start.
Everyone laughed. Reed was known for his obsession with UFOs and other odd non-existing stuff, like zombies, vampires, ghosts and werewolves. I think he watches way too may reruns of The X-Files on Netflicks.
“Another nightmare?” asked Keilah poking him in the back from the seat behind.
“Ah, yeah,” Reed answered rubbing his eyes, “I guess so.” Everyone laughed again as Reed looked around furrowing his brow.
“We were talking about the Honey Island Swamp Monster,” I offered.
“Oh yeah,” said Reed, “they’re probably aliens.”
“Probably,” chimed Carla with a wry smile and a roll of her eyes. Everyone laughed again.
“You’re crazier than a fox in a hen house,” said Dallas, a Louisiana transplant from rural Texas. He was always saying hick stuff like that.
“Look who’s talking about monsters, cowboy,” retorted Reed.
“T’ain’t no such thang, nor little green men, flyboy.”
“Might be, ya know.”
Dallas guffawed and Dad piped in.
“This probably has whole lot more to do with earthlings than extraterrestrials,” he said, “and nothing to do with monsters either in spite of the myths.”
“Even though such rumors have been floating around even before the infamous Harlen Ford sightings in 1963 and 1980,” added Bart’s dad, “Besides there’s never been any real evidence—everything that was said to be evidence turned out to be a hoax.”
“But, that’s the strange thing about that digital picture a tourist snapped last week,” replied my dad, “it was still on the camera; no Photoshop involved.”
“The marsh monster was photographed!?” mocked Keilah, “Again? So what, there are lots of supposed pictures and plaster casts of footprints.”
“Marsh Monster,” Reed pondered, “I like that.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I said turning to Keilah, “What? Pictures in comic books?”
“No, seriously,” continued Keilah, “they’re at the paranormal museum.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “and fuzzy pictures of ghosts and zombies; and they’re all over the Internet, too, but that doesn’t mean…”
“That they’re real,” Keilah cut me off, “I know. That’s what I’m saying.”
“This one, they tell me, looks pretty convincing,” assured Bart’s dad, “it was taken with a professional camera, quality zoom lens and all, at 2400 dpi.”
“Not even blurry,” added my dad, “even though it was taken from a moving airboat—which was full of eye witnesses, by the way. Saw the picture last week before we left. Awfully clear. Looks like a genuine Bigfoot to me—more organic than synthetic.”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s not a fake,” assured dad.
“Oh, it’s a fake,” said Bart’s dad, “no matter what it looks like. Even though every neck of the woods—or swamp—has its legends, there’s never been convincing proof that there’s any kind of cryptid in existence.”
“Cyptid?” questioned Bart, rubbing his temple.
“From the Greek krypto meaning ‘to hide,’” Reed instructed, “it’s a creature—
or plant—whose existence has been suggested, but is unrecognized by scientific consensus, and often regarded as highly unlikely, though it’s possible...if it hides.”
“Where do you get this stuff?” I exclaimed.
“Wikipedia.”
“You are such a geek, Reed,” said Bart. Reed shrugged his shoulders and leaned once again against the door. “Wikipedia,” mumbled Carla laying her head on my shoulder...
