Purest Fiction: Her Newest Refuge

She took a hard look at her newest refuge.
It was too bad Pennsylvania had no recycling refund like Michigan. If they had, she’d turn in the cans for cash. Still, if she resisted the lure of the Internet, it would be a long time until her pursuers found her.
A table and chair stood by the window overlooking the tree of heaven, and she sagged onto the seat. When she turned her head, she could see into a small bathroom: sink, mirror, and toilet all in a space that looked tighter than her old bedroom closet. The busboy must have showered at the “Y,” if he showered at all.
Another sound drifted up the stairwell: music, from a radio in the kitchen. It was an orchestration of the song she wrote to accompany her first novel. It still brought a lump to her throat. When the voices began, she couldn’t hold back the tears. The singers blended powerfully, and it was almost as though her characters had come to life.
That first book achieved four reprints, and she had grown accustomed to seeing battered paperback copies in “Friends of the Library” book sales. The author sighed and stood.

In the beginning, it was good.

The huge suitcase had served her well, trundling through airports across the country, and even to Europe. Now, as she unloaded its contents into the bureau drawers, it reminded her of the many places she dared not go. The last thing she removed was a stack of blank postcards. There were few left, and she pulled a pen from her waist pack and wrote.
“My dear friend, all is well with me. Well with my soul, anyway. I have a place to live, and a job that should not attract attention. I hope the postmark will make you smile. Don’t worry for me, I’ll write you again.” Instead of a signature, she sketched a harp. Her friend would understand.
The author glanced at her watch and rushed down the stairs. The last thing she needed was for someone to steal her laundry. Plunging out the screen door and dashing along the building, she found her wet clothes heaped on a counter, and all the dryers full and running. Her shoulders sagged. It never happened to her hero and heroine, but it was her life.

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Purest Fiction is a story with twelve parts. Stay tuned for Purest Fiction: Tabloid Headlines
Read more of my published short stories here.