Longarm and the Voodoo Queen

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The sun was just peeking over the moss-draped cypresses when the children came running along the bank of the bayou, laughing and capering, waving the bamboo poles they clutched in their hands. They came to a stop at their favorite fishing spot. Hands were plunged into the wooden bucket full of chopped mullet, and the slimy little bits of dead sea creatures were carefully impaled on bent pins that served as hooks. Here under the trees, the air was already hot and still despite the early hour, and the surface of the bayou lay flat and silent, broken only by an occasional ring of concentric ripples caused by insects landing on the water and then taking off again. The soft, liquid voices of the boys were the only sounds.

Hooks baited, they cast out into the water, and the bent pins made more ripples as they struck the placid surface. The ripples ran outward from the points of impact and gradually died away. The boys fell silent, content in their companionship and in this time and place.

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