Anti-Heroin Chic
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog
  • Music
  • Art
  • Comedy
  • About Our Contributors
  • Masthead
  • Issues
  • About our contributors - 2019
  • About Our Contributors - 2020
  • About Our Contributors - 2021
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog
  • Music
  • Art
  • Comedy
  • About Our Contributors
  • Masthead
  • Issues
  • About our contributors - 2019
  • About Our Contributors - 2020
  • About Our Contributors - 2021
Search by typing & pressing enter

YOUR CART

​

4/3/2022

Sacred Mist by Niles Reddick

Picture
               ​LuxFactory CC



Sacred Mist


    It had been over forty years since Elvis Presley passed away, and when the radio disc jockey announced the anniversary of his death and asked listeners where they were when it happened, the memory of my mother steering the Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight station wagon toward the city from our small rural community swirled into view—the four of us children sliding on the maroon vinyl seats and not wearing seatbelts. As the oldest, I had claimed the front seat, and when we came to a stop sign close to the city, regular broadcasts were interrupted to announce the king’s death, likely from cardiac arrest and his body found in a seated position in front of the toilet on the floor, a fact no one would likely want reported. 
   Mom’s hands shook, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she pulled into a new subdivision with brick homes just outside the city built mostly for the expansion of Air Force base employees.
    “Is something wrong?”
    “Elvis is dead.”
    “Who’s Elvis?”
    “A singer,” she said. She pulled a tissue from her purse, wiped tears, and pulled back onto the state highway, driving slowly and listening to the Elvis music playing on the radio. I recognized the music from records she played while sweeping and mopping the wooden floors in our clapboard house. She drove slowly, the station wagon floating along the highway like the layered mist floating above the river we crossed and the layers of smoke floating in my grandfather’s den from the Swisher Sweet cigars he smoked while sipping Jack Daniel’s at night after work. 
     When I’d first thought I’d try smoking, I stole a pack of matches from my grandparents’ kitchen, and when they were outside in the porch swing, I took a partially smoked Swisher Sweet from my grandfather’s amber-colored glass ashtray, lit it, and had a few puffs. I choked and gagged until I saw particles of light in my eyes like poor Wile E. Coyote saw in every Looney Tune episode when he was run over, crushed, or fell from cliffs in pursuit of the Road Runner.  Like Wile E., I shook my head clear of stars, stubbed out the Swisher Sweet, though not completely, and when my grandparents came in from their swing, my grandmother said to my grandfather, “Are you trying to burn down the house? You left that stinking cigar burning in the ash tray.”
    “I’m sorry,” he’d said.
    I let out a sigh of relief, as if I’d exhaled and blown smoke upward toward the ceiling, and I was happy they didn’t suspect their thirteen-year-old grandson. My grandmother had raised her apron, wiped sweat beads from her forehead, looked at me with her blue-gray eyes and said, “Don’t you pick up that bad habit.”
    “No mam,” I’d said. 
    Knowing it was Elvis’ death anniversary, I turned on my computer in my office, clicked on my Pandora shortcut, and listened to Elvis love songs softly in the background: “Love Me Tender”, “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, and “Are you Lonesome Tonight?” I thought of my mother sweeping and mopping the wooden floors of our old house that was torn down years ago and my grandparents dancing in their living room at Christmas when they both sipped whiskeys surrounded by cigar smoke. I wondered how many people Elvis must have made happy with his music even though the end of his short life was fraught with problems. I imagined the mist of my memories spinning like a vinyl record on a player, the needle inching us forward with the music, until the song is over, the sacred mist evaporates, and there is stillness.

​


​
Niles Reddick is author of a novel, two story collections, and a novella. His work has been featured in over four hundred fifty publications including The Saturday Evening Post, PIF, BlazeVox, New Reader Magazine, Citron Review, and The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts. Website: http://nilesreddick.com/

Meredith Chiwenkpe Asuru
4/14/2022 10:53:22 am

Great writing. I loved it.


Comments are closed.

    Author

    Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.

    Archives

    December 2024
    November 2024
    August 2024
    July 2024
    April 2024
    March 2024
    December 2023
    November 2023
    October 2023
    September 2023
    August 2023
    July 2023
    June 2023
    March 2023
    December 2022
    October 2022
    July 2022
    June 2022
    May 2022
    April 2022
    January 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    August 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.