Dead Yard

If you’ve run out of gas on a stretch of road where the telephone poles have turned to pillars of salt and you reach at last the intersection where history meets the future, take off your shoes, wade into the ditch, pull aside the carrion and you’ll find M.E. Parker’s Hinterland Trilogy. M.E. Parker searches for beauty and love in rust and salt, for meaning and truth in the facades of wind-blasted ruins.

Now available on Kindle, two short stories set within the world of the Hinterland trilogy, a future dark age where technology has been lost. Set thirty years before the novel Jonesbridge: Echoes of Hinterland. “Dead Yard” takes place in Alliance territory. The second story, “the Harlot of Baltimore,” provides an E’ster perspective.
deadyard

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Secondhand Steam

At odds with my environmentalist leanings, I admit that I have a soft spot for road trips and driving cars, preferably a five-speed junker from another era, a car with stories to tell. My favorite of these was a Volkswagen camper van I purchased in 1990 from its ninth owner that had already clocked over three hundred thousand miles and chewed up two engines, all under one coat of paint. By the time I got the van, the factory sunflower yellow had baked into Melba Toast umber, and the “Volkswagen smell” (anyone who has ever owned an old Beetle will know this right away) had ripened into a new odor, a mashup of a Rif Valley hashish lab masking a whiff of pine needles and vodka.

The van also came with a spectrum of stains on the carpet, rips in the seat, and, of course, a collage of stickers so thick on the back windows that I was positive people followed me just to finish reading them. They were a patchwork life story of the van in countless languages: stickers from camping sites, cities, beaches, almost everywhere it had been in twenty-plus years. I had some memorable times camping in orange groves, creek beds and beaches, cruising through Madrid, Lisbon, and St. Tropez, but I have always been drawn to the stories of the van before I got it, the ones I don’t know, yet the van produced them in my mind.

Books are the same for me, where the story takes me once my eyes trail off the edge of the page. What world has the composition and the color conjured in my imagination? What stories spin out from its orbit. How the town down the road that is never mentioned celebrates the onset of spring, or what sort of treasures I could find in the basement of the house next door to where the main character lives.

Jonesbridge was written under a layer of existing dust, within the relics of memories from childhood and dreams. I invite you to remove the cushions from that twenty-year-old sofa in the basement. See the crumbs and detritus, three generations of ink pens and fast food toys, wrappers, the unidentifiable snack remains, dried and petrified, some still moist, and coins of all denominations. Throw the cushions aside and curl up in the debris with a copy of Jonesbridge.

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