serialisation. pt 1. (still busy)

Man. Wife. Boy. The Jenkins family lived on top of Toler Mountain. Eight miles by road. We managed it in two by climbing straight up and over.

Mr Jenkins was a Holy Roller who brought the message, and a good bit more, every Sunday down at a little church in Buttermilk Junction. Mrs Jenkins made cherry cobbler and nothing else when she wasn’t sitting in the front row of her husband’s church listening to him tell the congregation what they’d done wrong and what he’d done right.

Preacher Jenkins was just he right amount of odd for a man named Ennis. His clothes were tighter than they should have been and he spit shined and coiffed his hair just enough. At the altar he paired excited eyes with thin, strained lips and came off looking like a possessed race horse. Ennis Jenkins could look a man to death. If you didn’t fall out in a dead faint from the heat or the spirit or ’cause it was just what you were suppose to do, you fell out when he eyeballed you long enough.

The man did his job well.