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Going Nowhere by Kevin Wetmore


Stuck in the same small Connecticut town that’s held him back since birth, Eddie feels like he’s going nowhere… until the prospect of making some easy money lures him out to the ‘party house’ in the woods after dark.



Eddie’s life is going nowhere: dead-end job, bad reputation, and nothing to look forward to but more of the same. He’d give anything he’s got to get out of his backwater little town, and when the chance to make some easy cash comes his way, Eddie jumps at it. All he has to do is make his way to the house in the woods, where generations of teens have partied. There’s some kind bud stashed out there with his name on, and it might just be his ticket to freedom… or Eddie might end up finding something waiting for him in the dark.


Going Nowhere will also feature in the anthology, Restless, coming soon from Frith Books.

Kevin’s Author Page

Additional information


Kevin Wetmore


7,503 words (22 .pdf pages)


.epub, .pdf

Kindle ASIN


Cover Design

Anna Reith

Read an excerpt


© Kevin Wetmore. All rights reserved.

Eddie sat in his car, put the alligator clip to his lips, and drew deeply. He held the smoke for as long as he could, and finally exhaled out of the window, ending with a practiced cough. Then, he licked his fingers and pinched the end of the roach, figuring he’d save the rest until after work. He put it in a baggie under the seat.

Eddie’s car stood at the far end of the parking lot, three spots over from a wrecked black Honda. Seven months ago that car had been in a head-on collision in front of Matty’s Drive-In and the cops had it pushed up here so it was off the road. The front of the car was all smashed in, the engine burrowing up through the hood and the windshield cracked. The cops had said they would tow it away, but it was still here, going nowhere. Eddie knew how it felt. 

He turned his key in the ignition and waited until the dashboard lights cycled through and the clock came on. Four twenty-six. He had four more minutes before he had to punch in. If he was late, he knew Mazetti would give him a ton of shit, but Eddie didn’t care. He stared out of the windshield toward the woods behind the fast food joint. The sun hung low in the sky, but there was still at least two hours of daylight left. Work sucked. And working four-thirty to close on a Saturday night sucked most of all.

Eddie figured he had time to reflect, so he sat back and thought about how fucked up life was. Still working the same fast food job he’d gotten when he was nineteen, after he graduated high school, which blew because he wanted to be working in the garage down the street, repairing engines. Mr. Sluzars, the garage owner, wouldn’t even interview him because he’d showed up smelling of pot. “This is serious work, son,” he’d told Eddie. “I don’t need any druggies doing poor work for me.”  

The funny thing was, Eddie hadn’t even smoked up for a few days beforehand, but he guessed his jacket and his car carried the smell with them now. Whatever. Who called people “druggies” other than complete douchebags?

Eddie had grown up working on engines. His father had been a mechanic with Metro North. John, his older brother, with whom he had taken apart and rebuilt his first engine—and who had, when he was sixteen, first introduced thirteen-year-old Eddie to weed—had managed to get out of town and got to work on engines now.

John had gotten in trouble with the cops when he was eighteen, and their folks had given him an ultimatum: join the army or go to jail. He’d joined the army. Cut his hair, which had been even longer than Eddie’s. Stopped smoking up. Became a mechanic and worked on everything. Served four years active duty, including a tour in the Middle East and then came back and got a job as a mechanic with Metro North, fixing train engines, just like Dad.

Did he help his kid brother at all? No. The asshole just judged Eddie every time he saw him. Told him to cut his hair, stop smoking—when he was the asshole who’d taught Eddie how to do it in the first place!—and get a real job. When Eddie tried to explain, John would just look at him and say, “When you gonna grow up, little brother?” and he’d walk out of the room.  

Eddie barely spoke to his parents anymore. He hated his brother, and had few friends left. Once everyone had graduated from high school, a lot of them went on to college and when they came back on break or for the summer, they hung out with college friends. Nobody wanted to get high with Eddie. Nobody just wanted to hang out and shoot the shit like they used to. They sucked. As Eddie thought about it, though, they had always sucked. Even his friends. He was just seeing it now. 

They had picked on him since third grade. That was one of the things that really sucked about growing up in a small Connecticut town out in Bum Fuck, Egypt: everybody knew everybody since birth. No second chances. Back in the town’s one elementary school, Eddie could never make the letters work the way other kids could. When the teacher called on him to read out loud, the words never made sense. He’d try to sound them out until the teacher took pity, got frustrated, or both, and called on someone else to take over. Then the other kids would giggle and call him “dummy.” Fuck them. You don’t do that to a little kid.  

He wasn’t a dummy, he just wasn’t a reader. He had other skills, but did anyone in town value those? No. This place only cared about grades and sports and bullshit like that. The local paper came out weekly, and most of it was articles about the kids in town achieving things. The only place Eddie’s name ever showed up was in the police blotter. They listed your name and address when you got cited or arrested or even if the cops just hassled you and what local ordinance you got busted for. So every asshole in town knew when Eddie got a ticket for speeding, or failure to stop, or riding his motorcycle without a helmet, or when the cops busted him for having weed, or underage drinking, or illegal fireworks. The few times he’d gone out on dates with girls, he always saw the looks in their parents’ eyes and knew they’d seen his name in the paper.  

Fuck them.

In high school the kids had called him “Stench,” because he always wore the same jean jacket he’d started wearing when he was fourteen. He knew it reeked of B.O. and weed. He just didn’t give a shit. It was comfortable, it looked cool. It was his symbol. Like Superman’s cape or Batman’s mask. You wouldn’t walk up to Batman and be like, “Hey, you’ve been fighting crime so your mask smells. You need to wash it or wear something else, Stenchman.”

Batman would kick your ass.


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