Bobbye lives among the cotton fields in West
Texas with a spoiled chocolate Labrador who has a sock-fetish. Bobbye remains a
voracious reader of anything from novels to tabloids in the grocery line; a
collector of strange and unusual trivia and observed behavioral idiosyncrasies
of strangers, and a connoisseur of rich dark chocolate,
fine roasted coffee and smooth red wine.
“That’s enough sister. It’s time for
me to take over this conversation. She was my
nemesis and I did almost go to the big house over this unfortunate
misunderstanding. You see, readers, most of the town folk are convinced I,
Roxie Turner, the younger prettier sister, am the reason for our sudden surge
in the death toll. I don’t understand how rumors get started. Someone out there
obviously doesn’t follow the International Snoop Guidelines. When I tell
someone the latest gossip, I make sure they repeat it back to me for accuracy
before I let them loose to spread the word. Anyway, who knew somebody would
take me seriously when I said I was going to kill Georgia. I mean, really? I’d
just been saying I’d snuff her for a couple of decades. If I were really going
to do it, don’t you think I’d gone ahead back then when our feud started? It
would have been an easy task to just blow her up or push her off the cliff into
the bay.”
****
Welcome to Briny
Bay, North Carolina
By Trixie Frye
& Roxie Turner
“Hi everyone. My name is Trixie
Frye. I’m the second born in a wild and crazy bunch of siblings. Our oldest
sister got out of our little bayside town early while the gittin’ was good, and
who knows if she will ever be back. However, my sister, Roxie and baby brother,
Jack, still live in Briny Bay, North Carolina. It’s not that we don’t love the stuffin’ out
of our little dysfunctional home. It’s just that the place defies explanation.
I mean, if you knew it recently gained notoriety for having the highest per capita murder rate on the
Eastern seaboard, you’d probably think just setting your dainty little foot on
our sandy soil would be enough to make you seriously consider increasing your
life insurance. But, as sure as I am a southerner, you don’t have to worry your
pretty little head one tiny bit. Why, we don’t even lock our doors at night.”
“She’s right you know. Roxie Turner
here. Nobody from Briny Bay’s gonna’ bother you unless it’s one of our town
drunks, and they’ll just crawl up on your porch and sleep it off.”
“It’s my turn to talk, Roxie so stop
your yapping. As I was saying, when it comes to As upstanding, everyone except
my couch-potato husband, Floyd, and his bunch of misfit sports buds go to
church on Sundays. And, thank the Lord for donations at our last picnic social,
we even have a pet cemetery. No, we don’t deserve this bad press. Truth be
told, we have gone and gotten a bum rap just because of a few mutilated bodies
that had the unmitigated gall to end up dead here. Coincidence, sheer coincidence.
You see, it all started with Georgia Adams’ murder. She was Roxie’s lifelong
nemesis and Georgia up and croaked in the town landfill with a knife through
her eyeball. “
“That’s enough sister. It’s time for
me to take over this conversation. She was my
nemesis and I did almost go to the big house over this unfortunate
misunderstanding. You see, readers, most of the town folk are convinced I,
Roxie Turner, the younger prettier sister, am the reason for our sudden surge
in the death toll. I don’t understand how rumors get started. Someone out there
obviously doesn’t follow the International Snoop Guidelines. When I tell
someone the latest gossip, I make sure they repeat it back to me for accuracy
before I let them loose to spread the word. Anyway, who knew somebody would
take me seriously when I said I was going to kill Georgia. I mean, really? I’d
just been saying I’d snuff her for a couple of decades. If I were really going
to do it, don’t you think I’d gone ahead back then when our feud started? It
would have been an easy task to just blow her up or push her off the cliff into
the bay.”
“Now, Roxie, my honest-to-God need
to get all the facts on the table requires I, the smarter more detailed sister,
butt in, that is, respectfully submit
additional information. You see, it’s not just that you always wanted to run
down Georgia so she was deader than road kill on a one-hundred degree day, but
that you have an uncanny way of stumbling over dismembered body parts and
corpses and then feel the need to touch them. Whoever invented baggies never
knew the ghoulish ways some people like you might use them.”
“Trixie Frye, stop trying to turn
our audience against me. Tell you what, readers, why don’t you read Buried in Briny Bay and decide for
yourself? It’s in the Small Town Charm,
Love and Mystery boxed set for just $.99. It’s cheaper than a piece of
Trixie’s lemon icebox pie and a lot easier on the waistline. We’d love to hear
what you think, and come to see us sometime.”
Links: for Bobbye Terry:
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