On his way to the Lost Soul Saloon for his nightly cognac and Padron cigar, Pierre Tibatoux strolled down Main Street admiring the Victorian architecture and original gas lamps, breathing the warm night’s scent of Monrovia and Azaleas and genuinely appreciating life’s good things. Spirit Mountain was set deep in the North Carolina side of the Smokey Mountains. It was once an Indian village but as the settlers moved in, the Native Americans felt the crowding of souls and quietly slipped away to the West side of the mountain. There was never a fight, no burning of homes, no pillaging, no raping. It just got too crowded for comfort. Pierre was in great shape for his sixty-two years. He attributed his good health to his Cajun genes and the clean mountain air, even though he smoked Lucky Strike non- filters and drank a glass or two of cognac on a daily basis. His face was deeply lined, especially around his eyes, which always gave him the appearance of smiling even when he wasn’t. His pitch- black hair, ruddy complexion and Indian nickel nose often made people mistake him for a Native American and he never corrected them. This story may be read in its entirety upon publication- ETA 2009 |
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