Perennials by Bryce Gibson Blog Tour
Today is day 4 of the blog tour for Perennials by Bryce Gibson.
Perennials is a YA thriller/mystery. Here is a brief synopsis as it appears on the back of the book…
Summer in South Carolina—a time of ripe peaches, crackling bonfires, trips to the lake, and the rural legend of a creature known as the Lizard Man.
This year, a very real monster is lurking about.
The victims all have one thing in common—they share their names with plants.
Soon it becomes apparent that seventeen-year-olds Dusty Miller and Nandina Bush may be next on the killer’s list.
And here is an excerpt from Chapter 2…
After passing by Abandoned Manor, I turned west onto the main road. I ran past more trees and similar ditch banks. My feet pounded on the dark pavement of the road.
The road hasn’t been paved in years so there are the occasional pot holes and dips in the surface. Like many rural roads, this one is unlined.
I ran about a mile until I came to another house. This one is in stark contrast to Abandoned Manor. The ramshackle cottage belongs to a man named Boston.
Boston is not his real name. It’s Frank, but many, many years ago he moved here from Boston, Massachusetts and was given the nickname. The name stuck, and that’s what he has been called ever since. Boston lives alone. His wife died before I was born. He has a son and a daughter, twins, but both of them moved away after graduating high school and never came back.
Boston was out in his front yard that day.
Earlier, the day had been warm and sunny, but, by then, it was turning seasonably cool.
It was nearing the end of September and all around Crow County there were festive scarecrows and fall scenes that had been popping up in front of people’s houses. There were old wheelbarrows that were full of pumpkins and bulbous gourds that had been parked in front of hay bales and dry corn stalks.
Dove hunting season had just arrived and the next morning would surely bring the pop of hunting rifles all across the area.
Halloween was right around the corner.
The sky was orange from the disappearing sun.
Boston was working in the flower beds that he kept tidy in front of his house. He looked up from his work and waved his garden-gloved hand at me as I passed. I waved back.
From there, after I passed Boston’s house, it wasn’t long until I heard the first sound of distant sirens. I kept running, but the sirens grew louder quickly. It was only a moment later before two cop cars flew by me in a panicked rush.
It is not often that police cars are seen where we live, so the sound and sight of them sent my nerves racing. My heart was pounding and didn’t begin to ease until the cars ventured further up the road and finally out of sight.
I continued running until I came to the sharp curve in the road. It was where I usually turned around. It was roughly one and a half miles from our house. There is a dirt path that leads off to the right, through the brush, and just into the edge of the line of trees. It is where I venture off of the pavement. I had done this so many times over those past several months. It was a familiarity that comforted me.
There was a tallish tree stump from an old oak that I used to stretch my legs on. I remember learning in grade school that the age of any tree could be determined by counting the rings. The rings on this one were too many to count.
From there, I could see Nan’s house through the trees. It stands on a large, grassy lot down a long, dirt drive. Nan’s family owned a nursery. Several greenhouses are lined along the back of the old farmhouse. Usually, as I stretched, I peered into the yard, hoping to get a glimpse of her. That day, as I looked up, my heart dropped.
The cop cars were in front of their house. Their blue lights were still flashing but the sirens had been turned off. One of the driver’s side doors had been left open. I found this to be particularly alarming. To me, it was a sign that the police had been in too much of a hurry to even do something as simple as shutting the door.
My eyes darted from the car to the house, and to the greenhouses and the ground. I saw a vibrant red color spread across the driveway. At first I thought it was blood that had been splattered across the dirt. My eyes shot around again. The center greenhouse door was standing wide open. My heart was hammering in my chest. Something bad had happened. Really bad. I knew this was true without a doubt. That was when I realized that the red I saw in the driveway wasn’t blood. It was a scattering of rose petals.
Deep down, I knew, right at that very moment, that what all of us had been afraid of for the past several months had already happened.
The serial killer had finally made his way to Crow County.
About Bryce Gibson
Bryce Gibson writes Southern fiction and takes readers to charming and oftentimes sinister areas of The South. He has a degree in Media Arts from the University of South Carolina, works full time as a farmer and lives with his wife and their dog. You can purchase the paperback or ebook of Perennials from Amazon.
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This is my first blog tour. Do you think I should host more?