Purest Fiction: Tabloid Headlines—Threatened
The author sat in a plywood chair with her back to the window.
Traffic flickered in her peripheral vision. Was that a turquoise blur? She shifted, too late to confirm it, and laundry curling in the dryers like surf mesmerized her weary attention.
Rising from the chair, she paced, shaking her head. It was past time to shift images and settings for her work. She knew the urge to write would never leave and no matter where she went, something reminded her of her early tales. If she began a story staged in a hill town, would things change again?
She raked the fingers of one hand through her bangs and discovered her sleeve already smelled of bacon grease.
From out of nowhere popped a character: Bacon Grease Sally, spinster, and figure of mockery.
How far back in time should she take this new tale? Her name wasn’t associated with historical romances.
An elderly woman shuffled into the Laundromat. Protruding from the pouch on her walker was a thick paperback book, the author’s second. The writer froze.
Any thought of helping the crone retrieve her towels from the dryer vanished. Because it only took one reader who recognized her photo on the back cover, and Pennsylvania would soon be no safer than Michigan or North Carolina.
The publisher had refused to allow her to hire a stranger to stand in as the face on the cover. The attorney and representative cited fraud laws, but the author’s lifelong aversion to cameras had proven prophetic.
If she moved to load her clothes into the empty dryer, the old woman might recognize her. If the author waited until she left, someone else would surely take the machine and the delay would make her late for work in the restaurant.
She took a deep breath and swept up the pile of damp garments. Two tense steps forward brought her within reach of the machine. A quick tap of the starter button and the writer relaxed.
This time, there might not be the bold red tabloid headlines:
Threatened Author Spotted in Grand Forks, North Dakota.
“Surf,” she whispered as the wet clothes tumbled, “it’s breaking waves, laundry detergent, and free movement on the Web.” Her fingers itched for a keyboard, and her mind echoed with the sound of clicking keys. Which friend would she email first?
There are so many of them, and I’m sure they all feel abandoned. Several of them sought agents. She wished them success.
Purest Fiction is a short story in twelve parts. Stay tuned for Purest Fiction: Bus Girl.
Read more of my published short stories here.
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Kathleen Friesen
Heidi Kortman