I’ve been a writer since I was about eight years old, and am now looking to make the transition to professional writer. If I could get paid to do this, each day would be better than the last.
Glenn Miller drooled out of the radio. Blue Orchids. He had numbly, faintly pressed the accelerator for some miles, from Haverford, past Ardmore and Wynnewood, really paying no attention at all to the road or the others he shared it with this night, and sputtered in aimless circles around the city proper until he gave out at 48th and Parkside.
Marla flexed whatever abdominal muscles she dearly hoped she had and sucked in her gut and held it there, having the twofold effect of masking her non-ironing board belly and pushing her chest out a smidge. She also wore a loose black Zeppelin top to further obscure the stomach she looked at in the mirror before her face every morning. She had, one morning, actually taken a silver dollar from her dad’s collection to verify that that was indeed the size of her areolas. They loomed large in her mind’s eye, infusing whatever daydreams of a date escalating to the stage of bra removal with a more-than-butterflies flutter of anxiety; same with the nickel-sized mole on her back that sprouted a single hair. She’d just plucked it out, and had about twenty-four hours in the clear.
Ira was pinned down to the concrete with enough brute force to keep his hungry bones prostrate, while the three men laughed at the animal sounds Ron made when they stomped on his ribs and stomach. After a critical blow, Ron spat blood like old faithful.
Dawson and Musgrave guided the horses down to the river bed with their free hands while using the other hand as a shield from the increasingly harsh glare. The hooves clopping through the dust and rocks reverberated through the dry creek bed. They had long left the colorful variety of osha, sage, corn pollen, and bitterroot behind for creosote and junipers that looked old as Moses and were twisted and demented, as if too sensitive for the solitude.