Crybaby Bridge: Slaughter in a Small Town
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Synopsis
It’s a typical Saturday night in the small town of Somerset . . . until it’s not.
When a group of unlikely teens test fate by participating in a local urban legend, they face consequences they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives.
Presented in an oral history twenty years after the fact, it’s Ken Burns by way of the grindhouse in this gripping tale of a bloody October night in a forgotten and vanishing America.
“An excellent follow-up to The Rules of the Road, CB Jones’ Crybaby Bridge enriches the urban legend with a multi-voiced documentary style presentation.” —Christi Nogle, author of the Bram Stoker Award® winning first novel Beulah
Release date: November 28, 2023
Publisher: Ionosphere Press
Print pages: 102
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Crybaby Bridge: Slaughter in a Small Town
C.B. Jones
PREFACE
My wife never talked about the accident. I only knew the barest of details: it had happened back in high school, a vehicular collision on a desolate country road. Alcohol may have been involved.
Sometimes there were nightmares. She’d wake me in the middle of the night with a hoarse scream or a series of somnolent moans. There would be nothing for me to do except hold her, waiting until she drifted off again.
I pressed for more information one time and one time only. When I did, a fog of uncovered terror fell over her eyes. She didn't speak for a very long time.
I had never seen that look in her eyes before.
I didn’t want to see it again.
***
I was scraping by on an advance from a book that had hit shelves several months back. Despite publication by one of the big four, the book was likely never going to earn its way into royalties. It was the result of almost a year of work, an occasionally humorous look at the cannabis industry explosion called Farmaceuticals: Reports from the Field of America’s Latest Cash Crop.
By the time the book was released, legal marijuana was old hat. The novelty was gone. I may as well have written a book on corn.
Aside from some freelance work and the rapidly dwindling advance, I was mooching off my wife. The school year had started up again and she was back teaching while I kicked around at the house, starved for inspiration.
Many times, she would come home to find me sitting at the kitchen table staring at a blank computer screen, scribbled notebooks scattered all around, my hair tugged in frustration. She’d place a reassuring hand on my back, not say anything, and I would feel a moment of comfort. That comfort would soon give way to thoughts of worthlessness and guilt, the fact that even though we were comfortable for now, I was failing as a provider.
She must’ve sensed this, too. One evening, over dinner, she let it drop casually. Like it abruptly came to her, something that randomly popped up in her mind. Yet, I knew that this could never be the case. Whether it was lurking in the corners or dancing at the forefront, it had to be something that was always there in some capacity.
“I’ve got an idea about a story,” she said between bites of chicken piccata. ...
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