Purest Fiction: Post Office

Fiction for Friday, , , 4 Comments

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.” 

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Purest Fiction: Off Ramp

Fiction for Friday, , , , 5 Comments

Purest Fiction: Off Ramp

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.

Comparative safety was yards ahead.

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.”

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