Skinny Dipping in a Dirty Pond by @LisAnnaLangston is a recommended read #literaryfiction #memoir
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  • N. N. Light
    • Oct 21, 2022
    • 5 min read

Skinny Dipping in a Dirty Pond by @LisAnnaLangston is a recommended read #literaryfiction #memoir



Title SKINNY DIPPING IN A DIRTY POND

Author LIS ANNA-LANGSTON

Genre LITERARY FICTION/MEMOIR

Publisher MAPLETON PRESS


Book Blurb


A young girl in a small southern town in the 80’s enlists the help of an unlikely group of friends and family to help her survive an unconventional, sometimes abusive childhood. Often left in the care of a paranoid schizophrenic uncle who lives downstairs and a psychotic uncle upstairs, the narrator stacks up a few heartbreaking observations. When her mother abandons her in favor of her addictions, the girl goes to live with her grandmother but finds happiness cut short when her grandmother dies. Her uncle believes the voices in his head have trapped his mother in a basement across town and as he slowly looses grip on reality, he also looses his ability to take care of her. Taken to a Group Home to live until a case worker can find her a place to go, her mom’s ex shows up and is forced to make a choice.


Excerpt:

The summer I turned three my mother called me out to the driveway.


“Cotton, come out here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”


It was dark outside, but I could see a tall, handsome man who looked like he’d stepped out of the magazines I shredded to make collages. I suddenly became conscious of my scraped knees with big ugly scabs and tugged at the hem of my dress.


The handsome stranger knelt in front of me, extending his hand. “Hi. My name is Dave. What’s your name?”


A lamp post blasted light against the back of his head. Shadows were everywhere. I felt my mother’s eyes on the back of my neck, making my hairs tingle.


I blurted out, “My birthday is coming up.”


The handsome stranger shifted, smiling. “How old are you?”


I held up my entire hand, fingers spread, then pulled my pinky finger and thumb back to touch. “Almost three.”


Shadows slanted down his cheeks. “What day is your birthday?”


“Twelfth.”


“Mine’s coming up in June,” he said, excited.


For some reason this made me like him tremendously. “What kind of cake do you like?”


“Boston cream pie with all of that creamy custard in the middle.”


“Me too,” I said. “My grandmother buys Boston cream cakes for me and my Uncle Stan because he doesn’t have any teeth.”


“Cotton.” My mother cleared her throat behind me.


I turned, “What?”


“Maybe we don’t need to talk about Stan right now.”

The handsome stranger butted in, “What do you say we go and get something to eat?”


Early summer was still a little chilly. Suddenly I wanted my poncho and to put on the sample bottle of perfume. I turned, running up the knobby gravel, trying to stay upright.


Behind me I heard the stranger say, “You never told me your name.”


Without looking back, I yelled, “Cotton Ann. I was named after a honeybee because I’m sweet with a sting.”


Then I ate dirt. Gravel, to be precise. The heels of my palms felt the deep gauge of sharp rocks, and my knees thundered in pain. My cheeks flushed hot. I stood up to keep running, blood trickling down my shins. I burst through the front door, horrified I had fallen and even more horrified over how I might look.


Once in the bathroom, I slammed and locked the door, looking over at the full-length mirror glued to the wall. Oh my gosh. Blood dripped down into my socks. Criminy. How embarrassing. Not only had someone just taken an interest in me but now, in a matter of less than a minute, I had fallen flat on my face and was bleeding to death all over my clothes. I searched frantically for a solution. Quickly I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and wet it under the bathtub faucet. I cleaned all of the blood off of my shins, and then I saw the answer. My black corduroy bell-bottoms lying dirty on the floor.


“Cotton!” my mother screamed from the other room. “What are you doing in there?”


“I’m coming,” I yelled, frantically kicking off my shoes. I jerked the cords up, ramming my feet into the shoes, kicking my dress behind the toilet. I ran out front as fast as I could.


My mother stood next to the car with her hand on her hip. “What took you so long?”


I climbed into the backseat. “I had to wash my hands.”


The Mexican restaurant had big velvet hats with sparkly sequins. I pointed and gushed, “Wow, that hat is bigger than me.”


“It’s a sombrero.” Dave reached for my hand as a lady in a ruffled skirt led us to a table.


The blankets hanging on the walls were rough and scratchy. The menu had about a bajillion items on it.


“I’ve never been to a Mexican restaurant,” I announced proudly.


“I recommend the enchilada plate.” Dave closed his menu.


A man wearing cowboy boots brought chips and dip to our table. That’s when Diggy showed up.


“Where have you been?” I whispered.


He cocked an ear to the side.


“Who are you talking to?” Dave asked.


“My friend Diggy,” I said.


My mother rolled her eyes. “It’s her imaginary friend. He’s not real. She just talks to him.”


“He is real.” I cut my eyes at her.


Off behind a row of potted plants, static crackled. Mexican music started to play. The man in boots passed by our table. My mother held up her hand and ordered a beer. I could feel blood drying on the knees of my pants. I didn’t care if my mother thought Diggy was real or not. I was going to eat an enchilada.


Whatever that was.


Diggy was pretty jazzed about free corn chips and wagged his tail.


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Giveaway:


I’m one of the authors participating in the Spooky Halloween Bookish Giveaway and you can win a print copy of Skinny Dipping in a Dirty Pond by Lis Anna-Langston.



Runs October 1 - 31 and is open internationally for many prizes.


Winners will be drawn on November 1, 2022.



Author Biography:


Lis Anna-Langston was raised along the winding current of the Mississippi River on a steady diet of dog-eared books. She attended a Creative and Performing Arts School from middle school until graduation and went on to study Literature at Webster University. Her two novels, Gobbledy and Tupelo Honey have won the Parents’ Choice Gold, Moonbeam Book Award, Independent Press Award, Benjamin Franklin Book Award and NYC Big Book Awards. Twice nominated for the Pushcart award and Finalist in the Brighthorse Book Prize, William Faulkner Fiction Contest and Thomas Wolfe Fiction Award, her work has been published in The Literary Review, Emerson Review, The Merrimack Review, Emrys Journal, The MacGuffin, Sand Hill Review and dozens of other literary journals. She draws badly, sings loudly, loves ketchup, starry skies & stories with happy aliens.


You can find her in the wilds of South Carolina plucking stories out of thin air.


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