Purest Fiction: Bus Girl
She missed interaction: bouncing ideas between creative minds. Her agent and publisher agreed to forward messages, but she hadn’t stayed anywhere for more than a week all spring.
The author shuddered, remembering a book signing in Phoenix.
“Hello. I came down here to find warm weather, and I’ve found you too.”
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?
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.
Purest Fiction: Just My Life No Wheels
The author blinked watering eyes as a woman’s voice rose up the stairwell.
“Ed, that weird woman left a huge suitcase under the table. What should I do with it? Mayor Perkins wants his usual seat.”
Purest Fiction: Mob Ties
“There’s an apartment vacant?” Control your voice, don’t draw more attention.
“Try me. I need a job and a place to stay while I work out some things. I promise not to hold parties above your premises.”
“G’wan, Lady, you don’t want to bus tables.” The owner snorted and scraped coins from the till for the remainder of her change. “The apartment isn’t much either. Three furnished rooms.”
“I do need work, and anything you’d pay me would stretch the money I have set aside. What terms do you want to set for the lease?” She held out her hand, and he laid a five-dollar bill in her palm, followed by a one, and the coins.
“Are you running from an ex, Lady?” He slammed the drawer of the cash register. “If some guy is going to come here and make trouble, I don’t need that.”
Purest Fiction: No Pickle No Chips
Farther down the road were the unmistakable lions that guarded library steps. She could go in, perhaps log on. No! When she logged on, her eye for details demanded that she comment, giving her hunters a place to begin again.
Instead, she entered the Laundromat and found an unused washer. The author raked heaps of laundry from the cavernous suitcase and fished a handful of quarters from her waist pack. There was enough detergent in her bottle for one load, but she needed more than that. The easiest thing was to start the first washer load, then go buy lunch.
Purest Fiction: Post Office
The woman raked her dripping bangs out of her face and forced herself to her feet. She picked up the suitcase with her left hand. The wheels had broken off long ago, but it still held the things she valued. The galleys of the last novel for her publisher’s contract, packed in a box at the bottom, weighed the case down.
At the end of the off-ramp stood a road sign. She wiped her water-spotted lenses on her damp jacket sleeve and peered at the lettering. “Welcome to Donegal. How appropriate! I hope my agent gets the joke.”
The woman leaned to her left and slogged down the incline. “Donegal should have a post office,” she muttered. “I’m weary of lugging this around.”
The fog resolved to steady drizzle, and she didn’t know which was worse. The woman pressed close to the guardrail. Her shoes slid in the bluestone chips and crumbling asphalt on the margin of the road. There was the familiar hiss of tires on wet pavement, and she fought the panicky desire to freeze.
With a mighty roar, the dirty semi moved past at the speed limit. Its draft made her stagger and the water thrown up by its wheels spattered her glasses. If she survived walking farther up the road, she could lean on the “road closed” barrier that blocked the off-ramp and put the suitcase down for a moment.
“Either someone has a sense of humor, or life imitates fiction,” she said to a robin that perched on the fence pole and shook water from its wings. “I’m as homeless now as Ruarri ever was. I chose this red suitcase in a moment of hope, and look at me.”