Complete fiction

The writings on this page are my own fictional works.

 With apologies to Jack Kerouac, consider this:

So there we were at The Rusty Bucket, a tableful of beers a few that is and all the cityfolk cutting in and out, paying five dollars at the door, the little heroin-addicted blonde there taking tickets and hacking almost in time with the band, Laredo Jake floating in as prophesied (a tall weathered straight-as-an-arrow West Tex cowboy in jeans and authentic crap dried on his boots coming in to an urban wanna-be biker bar of well-scrubbed developers & latte tycoons come outlaws all with brand new chrome hogs out front. Think hard and don’t forget to be all smoky and somber.  I yelled, “Jake?” and “Yeah?” and he’d come over)–all sitting together, interesting groups at various tables.

Jake is there for the cook. Always calls her darlin and gravy-maker takes her home every night. They have a kid. Jake says I’m big talkin easy-money and worse–a cityboy. “Talker, gonna make a book like you boys do?” Jake gazed not at me but past me he sneered and I said yeah I blog now. “Ya whut?” I write. I journal it. Almost all of it. It burns inside me if I don’t. Life, love, sex, the law, any kind of art, music, justice, the American ideal and what is it, food, booze, tennis shoes, the indomitable quality of the human spirit, and the buzzing in my inner ear. Does not matter.

Laredo Jake yawned and started talkin’ to the next table whore he’d been starin at since he sat down. His darlin came out of the kitchen directly and Jake just then looked back at me- “Luck to ya, paperback writer.” Hand-in-hand past the door weasel the two damn near two-stepped their way out the door into the night. And I wrote it down.


Chapter 1

Landy was approaching the two lane bridge near the county line. She had driven at least 45 miles before she discovered that she hadn’t taken off her reading glasses after stopping to check the map. Landy was absent-minded that way. Before her realization, she had concluded that someone had repainted all the street signs in crisp black lettering. And that her hands were swollen.

“Silly girl,” she said out loud, “things will be just fine so long as you don’t fall apart.” Try to unclench your toes and breathe, she told herself.Her rigid arm jutted out the car window at the precise moment that the bridge’s mid-point was reached. Her fist opened and the syringe that it held floated gently on the breeze until it was sucked violently into the river that raged below. Now she could relax, if only a little.

Just then Landy almost jumped out of her skin. It was her cell phone. Her heart racing, she picked it up and spoke. “Oh, Lynne it’s you. No, I’m fine. No, hon, I’m not coming in. Did you forget that today is the first day of my two week vacation? I swear your frontal lobe is starting to rival mine.”Lynne was Landy’s friend of 20 years, her sometime travel companion, and a fellow librarian. The head librarian called them the “Bobbsey Twins” which, of course, frustrated persnickety Landy because the Bobbseys are two sets of fraternal twins.

Lynne was calling because Landy was late for work and that had never happened before. “Lynne, you’ll just have to get over your withdrawal pains and cope until I get back. I’m kidding. It’ll be just as hard on me. I’m out of my coverage range once I’m in New Mexico but I’ll drop you a postcard or two. Be good, doll.”

Landy pulled the battery from her phone and dropped it into her purse. She then threw the phone as hard as she could through the still open window. It landed somewhere in the foot tall weeds next to County Road 14. She had an immediate sense of regret for having discarded her phone. Doing that wasn’t in her plans. Rather than stop to retrieve it though, she stepped on her accelerator.

To be continued…

Legal Notice: The characters featured on this web page are completely fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. No similarity to any person either living or dead is intended or should be inferred.


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