“A Native’s Tongue is
about a young man trying to find his way in the world. He struggles to keep the woman he loves
while entangled in the sex, drugs, and tragedy of Los Angeles. It was inspired
by real events,” says Dennis.
Love and tragedy collide in Dennis’s
poignant new novel, A Native’s Tongue.
Charlie Winters has never been an
overachiever. He is used to just getting by while living with his single mother
and working a dead-end job at a cheesesteak stand. Meanwhile, he’s constantly
grappling with the voice of his sister, who died in a tragic car accident years
earlier, echoing in his head.
So when Violet, an older woman, sets her
sights on Charlie and refuses to let go, he follows along. He soon finds
himself immersed in a destructive relationship that still fails to fill the
void within him.
But then he meets Jennifer, a mystical
young woman whose energy and life convinces Charlie to pursue her, even through
the darkest corners of Los Angeles, and sets their lives upon a path that can’t
be stopped.
Escaping to the California coast, Charlie
and Jennifer finally find what they’ve always needed. But a sudden illness
quickly pulls them both back to LA. It is there, amid the sex, drugs, and
split-second decisions that pulse through the city, that tragedy
strikes—threatening to tear Charlie and Jennifer apart forever.
CHAPTER 1.
Jennifer
Bannister’s footsteps echoed down the hall. The uniforms of the inmates
dampened the sound. Her ears tried to follow the faint sound, if only to affirm
that she was still moving forward. There wasn’t anyone to hold her hand. She
just trusted that each sign would guide her in the right direction.
I’ll get there at some point, Jennifer thought, trying to convince
herself that she was doing the right thing. You can’t get lost in here; they
don’t let you go off course. Her words slipped away. She felt the cold air
settle over her skin. She glanced at a placard marked Visitors Only.
In the cool
air, her skin tightened. Jennifer shivered and wished she were somewhere
warmer. Seeing Violet for the first time was going to be hard enough. She was
going to look the woman she hated most in the world in the eye. She didn’t want
to be shaking from the cold and covered in goose bumps.
Jennifer
peered through the bulletproof glass at Violet. There were markings embedded in
the glass, swirls that made it harder to look directly into Violet’s eyes.
Jennifer picked up the phone and listened. Violet grabbed it and began to
speak, “It was never you that he loved. You know that right?” Violet’s voice
was raspy.
Her
expressions and mannerisms changed from static to fully engaged. She stood up
and waved her hands maniacally at Jennifer, and then she slammed her fist
against the glass.
Jennifer
hung up the phone. Her blonde hair got caught in between her hand and the
receiver as she placed it back on the black hook. Turning, she slid out of the
red plastic chair and down the corridor, guided by the exit sign’s green light.
In the stale air of the prison, she searched for a pack of cigarettes,
unsheathed a Parliament, lit it, and smoked nervously.
Two
overweight guards carrying guns in nylon hip holsters directed her to the
parking lot, where they offered her matching robotic waves good-bye. The
midnight blue 2005 Jaguar xk8, which her parents loaned her for this visit, was
the only vehicle in the parking lot row. Her parents thought she would feel
safer in their car rather than her own bright red Honda.
In either
case, she seemed to fit this car, or the car fit her a lot more. Her lean
physique matched the lines on the Jag, and it made her feel more mature. She
was constantly trying to act older than she was. Jennifer went around to the
passenger side of the car and opened the rear door. She set her oversized black
leather purse on the back seat and took out a translucent orange bottle filled
with tiny white pills. She slung her head back, popped two, shut the door and
walked around to the driver’s seat.
The heat
had melted the surface of the Jaguar’s leather seats, reducing the fabric to a
buttery texture. Jennifer’s blonde hair clung to the sides of her shoulders, heavy
with sweat. She retrieved her car key from the passenger seat, pressed the key
into the slot, and burst into tears, suddenly unable to move.
Jennifer
hadn’t eaten all day. The heavy dose of Xanax caused her to feel excessively
nauseous. She blacked out and fell forward, hitting her forehead on the
steering wheel. The car increased in temperature with the late afternoon heat.
Her powder-white skin grew red.
“Miss. Are
you alright? Miss?” A young guard, Bill Marsh, had spotted the car, and decided
to go in for a closer look.
When
Jennifer didn’t move, he took out his club and smashed the window. She woke up
from her temporary coma and lashed out.
"You
Fuck!" Her voice was barely audible, even with the window smashed. Her
energy was gone.
"Miss--I,
I’m sorry you didn't look okay."
"I am!
What business do you have involving yourself in my business? Do you know what
you did? You just fucked up my car, you moron.”
“Look, I
just saw you from my station.”
To Bill,
her face looked familiar, though he couldn’t place where he had seen her
before.
"You
have no idea. Sitting in your stupid box, behind that intercom.
"I’m
sorry, I know we’ll pay for the window. Hell, if the prison won't, I personally
will." Bill said.
About the Author:
Michael D. Dennis is an
author and playwright who earned a degree in English literature from
Loyola Marymount University. Winner of a LMU Playwriting Award for his play Death
of a Watchdog, Michael also had his play, Hen
in the Field, produced at the Whitefire Theatre in 2012.
His highly anticipated debut novel, A Native’s Tongue, will be released in June
2014. Michael currently lives in Santa Monica, California with
his girlfriend and two dogs, Jack and Aurora. To
learn more, go to http://www.michaelddennis.com/
or connect with Michael on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/michaeldaviddennis)
and Twitter (https://twitter.com/MichaelDDennis).
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