0pTitle: “Red Dust Ballad”
The sun was setting over the flat horizon of West Texas, casting long, orange shadows over the dusty highway where Jed Collins was thumbing for a ride. He had a beat-up guitar case in one hand, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and a song half-written in his head. The rest of the tune, he figured, would come to him somewhere between here and wherever he ended up.
He hadn’t meant to leave Austin like that—no note, no goodbye, just a whisper to the bartender at The Rusted Note that he’d had enough of singing cover songs for tips and drunk college kids. Jed needed something real, something like the songs his daddy used to play on the turntable when he was a boy—Waylon, Merle, and that red-headed stranger with a voice like worn leather and a heart full of fire.
A battered pickup rolled to a stop beside him, kicking up a halo of red dust. The driver, a woman with silver hair under a wide-brimmed hat, leaned out the window.
“Where you headed?” she asked.
Jed shrugged. “Wherever this road takes me.”
She studied him for a beat, then nodded. “Well, I’m headed to Amarillo. Hop in.”
The cab smelled like tobacco and sage. The radio crackled with an old country station playing “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” Jed smiled. It felt like the universe had cued up the soundtrack just for him.
“You a picker?” the woman asked, nodding at the guitar case.
“Tryin’ to be. Names Jed.”
“Call me Mabel,” she said. “You any good?”
Jed laughed. “I’m good enough to know I ain’t that good.”
Mabel grinned and lit a cigarette. “That kind of honesty’s rare these days. You ever heard of the Red Dust Festival?”
Jed shook his head.
“Small thing. Out near Marfa. Mostly old-timers and dreamers. But there’s a stage, and sometimes the right kind of song finds the right kind of ear.”
They drove through the night, past wind-blown towns and ghost-lit gas stations. Mabel told stories about life on the road in the ’70s—back when she sang backup for a man who played with Willie himself once upon a time. Jed listened, soaking up every word like dry earth drinking rain.
By morning, the truck rolled into a makeshift campground behind a faded roadhouse called The Cactus Jack. Musicians wandered around like tumbleweeds—some in denim vests with patches, others barefoot with battered harmonicas and voices soaked in whiskey.
Jed felt out of place. Too clean, too eager, too young. But Mabel gave him a look that said, You’re here for a reason, and that was enough.
Inside the bar, the air was thick with smoke and songs. People were scribbling lyrics on napkins, arguing over chord changes, and tuning guitars that had seen better days. A man named Luther, with a voice like gravel and a handshake like steel, ran the open stage.
“You wanna play?” he asked Jed.
Jed hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I got a song I’m workin’ on.”
He climbed onto the stage with shaking hands. The room went quiet—not out of politeness, but curiosity. He looked out at the sea of faces, each one a story. Then he pulled the guitar from its case, closed his eyes, and let the music come.
The song wasn’t finished. The last verse was still half-formed, but he sang it anyway—about backroads and heartbreak, about a father he barely knew and a girl who couldn’t wait. The chorus hit like a freight train: raw, true, and unpolished. Just like him.
When the final note faded, no one clapped. Not right away. Then Mabel stood, slow and sure, and started to applaud. One by one, the rest joined in. Not loud or rowdy, but the kind of applause that says, We heard you.
Later that night, under a sky full of stars, Jed sat by the fire with Mabel.
“You think it was any good?” he asked.
Mabel didn’t answer right away. She sipped her beer, then said, “There’s a story in your voice, Jed. You just need to live a little more of it.”
They stayed for three days. Jed played twice more, each time stronger, surer. He rewrote the last verse, then scrapped it again. On the final night, Luther handed him a scrap of paper with a name and number on it.
“Friend of mine runs a studio in Lubbock. Tell him I sent you.”
Jed looked at the paper like it was gold. “Why me?”
“Because,” Luther said, “you’re not tryin’ to sound like anybody else. You’re tryin’ to sound like you. That’s rare.”
Mabel drove him to the highway the next morning. As he climbed out, she handed him her old harmonica.
“For the road,” she said. “And remember—don’t chase the sound. Let the sound chase you.”
He watched her drive away, then turned toward the rising sun with nothing but his guitar, a harmonica, and a pocket full of red dust. Somewhere in the distance, the road was humming a tune only he could finish.
And he planned to play it loud.
Word Count: ~1,015
Let me know if you’d like a continuation, or a version inspired by another artist!
