The Biscuit Bandits & the Barefoot Lady

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Being a poor, restless pre-teen in the Piney Woods of East Texas was a strange kind of torture. The kind where time dragged so slow, you could hear it creak. There was nothing to do, just thick humidity, the occasional hum of cicadas, and a growing resentment about our dusty, forgotten life tucked away in the woods.

When the boredom turned bitter, rebellion didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Our neighborhood was poor, trailers with busted screens, porches sagging under the weight of rusted furniture, and stray dogs barking at everything and nothing. But it came with a ragtag bunch of kids just like me, who knew how to make mischief when the boredom hit too hard.

That’s when we invented the Biscuit Game.

We’d scrounge up a few coins, or lift a few cans when no one was looking, from the local corner store. Not the kind of store with clean aisles and cheerful greeters. This one had sticky floors, buzzing lights, and the smell of stale bologna and warm Dr. Pepper. We’d buy (or “borrow”) as many cans of biscuit dough as we could and head to our arena, the pine trees that lined the two-lane highway.

The trees were thick and tall, their trunks sticky with sap that clung to your skin like syrup. The pine needles crunched under our sneakers, and the air always smelled faintly of hot dirt, pine oil, and engine exhaust from passing cars.

That’s where we played our game. We’d crouch low in the woods like soldiers, eyes on the road. When we spotted a car coming, we’d count down, “three...two...one!” and launch a can’s worth of raw biscuit dough straight at the side of a moving vehicle. The thrill was in the thump. Not a splatter, but one clean, perfect hit. And if we timed it right, we'd hear it: “THWAP!”

A sound so satisfying, it echoed off the trees.

Usually, the cars kept driving. We’d giggle ourselves breathless and retreat deeper into the woods, our fingers sticky and so were our clothes.

But one day… we got cocky. We picked a big rig.

The dough hit the truck with a resounding ”WHOMP!!”, louder than anything we’d ever done. We were practically high-fiving each other when we heard it, screeching tires.

The driver flung the door open and jumped down like a wild bear set loose. A giant of a man, sweaty, red-faced, and furious. He had a crowbar in one hand and pure rage in the other.

“YOU LITTLE—!!”

He didn’t finish the sentence because he was too busy barreling toward us, cussing up a storm. He was fast for such a large man.

We scattered, fast. My heart pounded so loud I could feel it in my ears. My shoes pound against the pine needles as I tried to outrun the storm behind me, but I already knew: I was the slow one. Always had been.

I could hear him crashing through the brush behind me, twigs snapping, branches swishing, his boots thundering closer with every second.

That’s when I saw the clearing. The cemetery.

Now, I hated cemeteries. The smell of damp moss, the way the wind seemed colder there. The eerie stillness of the gravestones. I’d seen one too many horror movies with the dead clawing their way to the surface. But right now? Graveyard or not, it was my only hope.

I darted through the iron gate and zigzagged between the crooked stones. Some were smooth and polished, others crumbled and sunken, tilted like they'd given up.

I found the biggest headstone I could and dove behind it, heart hammering. I peeked out, he was still looking for me, still yelling, but not sure where I’d gone. Eventually, his angry steps faded as he stomped back toward his dough-covered truck, exhausted.

Relief flooded through me… until I tried to stand.

My foot wouldn’t move.

I looked down, and to my horror, my sneaker had sunk into the wet, muddy ground. Not just surface mud, it was deep, cold, sticky muck that smelled like old fish pond and something sour. I tugged, but the more I moved, the deeper my foot went. Then… my whole leg dropped with a disgusting squelch.

I froze. In my mind, I pictured the rotted hand of some long-dead corpse reaching up to finish the job.

I wanted to scream.

Then, out of nowhere, I saw her.

An older woman, barefoot, walking softly through the graves like she belonged there. She wasn’t ghostly or spooky, just calm, with long gray hair and a soft smile. Her feet were bare, but somehow untouched by the mud.

She saw my panic and chuckled lightly. “Don’t fight it, honey. Pull slow, not quick. You’ll get out easier that way.”

I did as she said, tugging slowly, carefully, and like magic, my leg slid free.

I stood, wobbling. “Thank you,” I gasped. “What are you doing out here?”

“Visiting family,” she said gently.

“What’s your name?”

“Louis Weller,” she replied, smiling like she knew something I didn’t.

She looked me up and down, muddy from the waist down, and said, “You really should find something safer and more productive to do with your friends.”

Wait, what? How did she know?

Before I could ask, I thought something was crawling on my leg so I looked down, hoping it wasn’t ants, and then, I looked back up, blinked… and she was gone. Just gone.

I made my way toward the neighborhood, soggy and stunned. As I passed the final row of headstones, one caught my eye. White marble. Angel on top. I stopped.

The name read:
Louis Weller…

Thanks for reading, some stories from the Piney Woods never leave you… especially the muddy ones.

Until next Tuesday,
PJ Hamilton
Turning struggles into stepping stones.

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