Free In the Land of Tea and Ravens by R.K. Ryals

leaving her window down as she turned the key in the ignition. The car roared to life. Letting the car idle, she sat until the sun swept the fields with its first golden rays, the color destroying the pristine vintage morning. It was then she finally drove away, the car bumping toward the light as if seeking redemption.
    Wind cooled by the rain the night before drifted through the open window, slapping at Lyric’s irredeemable hair as she drove over dirt roads and sparse grass toward the main blacktop.
    She hummed, the familiar tune keeping her focused while her car ate the distance between her grandmother’s old home and town.
    There was a truck stop on the edge of Hiccup, and she parked there just long enough to use the showers, brush her teeth, and change her clothes before scurrying from the building, her head down. No one bothered her, but she heard the whispers, felt the hatred building. She wasn’t safe in this town.
    Only one place welcomed her. She sought it out, her green and yellow tiered skirt snaking her ankles as she swept into the wooden building on the corner. A hanging sign outside read Delilah’s. People often liked to name things after themselves, maybe to immortalize who they thought their name made them. Maybe it was for recognition, despite the fact that no one person truly owned a name. Delilah’s, however, wasn’t named after the owner. She’d named it after the woman who’d seduced Sampson in the Bible. Juliet, the proprietress, often said, ‘Folks spend all week sinnin ’ so they can go to church on Sunday and leave the sin behind before startin ’ the sinnin ’ all over again. I just give them the place to do the sinnin ’. Seein ’ as I give them more a reason to go to church, it ain’t all bad.’
    Cigarette smoke and the scent of stale beer blasted Lyric in the face as she pushed open the bar’s door. Balls cracked against each other at the pool tables, and low murmured conversations drifted through the cool, dark room. A 1967 Rockola jukebox sat in the corner, the front lit up. Juliet Johnson leaned against it, a wry smile on her face, her hand poised over the machine.
    Nodding at a dirt crusted window, she murmured, “I saw you comin ’.” Her finger pressed the buttons.
    The Beatle’s song, Eleanor Rigby, blared, the customers at the pool table groaning.
    “That’s fuckin ’ sad as shit!” one of them shouted.
    Juliet grinned, her wizened face crinkling. Approaching Lyric, she mumbled, “Amazing what some folks find sad and what others find profound.” She marched behind the bar and patted the counter. “What’d you come in here for, girl? Couldn’t find that old tattered piece of crap Old Ma’am called a book?”
    Frowning, Lyric sat, her gaze locking with Juliet’s. “I can’t leave without it.”
    “Why?” Juliet asked. She slid an empty decanter across the counter and filled it with Coke. “Why can’t you just leave it all behind?”
    Lyric’s brows rose, a sad smile spreading across her face. “You know why.”
    Juliet shrugged. “So take the damned cup, but leave the rest. The book ain’t got no ties to you.”
    “It’s full of history, our history,” Lyric argued.
    “Then re-write it.”
    For a moment, there was nothing but silence and music. All the lonely people, the Rockola screamed, where do they all come from?
    Lyric gestured at the juke box. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
    The woman grinned, her crooked, tobacco-stained teeth flashing. “Don’t even pretend you ain’t lonely. I watched you grow up, gel.”
    Lyric scowled. “I’m not lonely!”
    Juliet shook her head. “I think it’s right time you fooled around with someone. I’m impressed it’s the Kramer boy considering your family’s history, but—”
    “I’m not fooling around with anyone!”
    “She doth protest too much,” Juliet laughed. “You can’t keep shit quiet in this town. Richard Newton pulled Grayson off your property last night.”
    “It’s