Whispers in the bayou...
. . . you didn't hear this from me . . .
A battered glass cracked against sticky floorboards at the Den last night, sharp as a gunshot in the hush between songs. Scuffed heels tangled with neon, one dancer toppled—smiling as she fell, never missing the beat. The only applause came from the ice melting in abandoned glasses.
The fog thickens by the hour. Four days unbroken. Now it pools at window sills, swallowing whole cars, curling through the alley grates like a living thing.
Deputy Broussard was seen pacing behind the barricade at Gumbo Gas, eyes darting to the marina. He’s been cleaning his badge with the edge of his shirt, over and over. Folks say he won’t speak above a whisper, except to himself.
Locked doors don’t keep the fog out or the Syndicate in. Someone’s late from the airfield. If you’re waiting on a delivery, better keep the porch light off tonight.
. . .
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