The woman next to Madison was reading Internal Auditor Magazine. The feminine navy pant suit with bright pink tee shirt was out of place among the other Midwestern passangers. Her rubber-soled navy loafers were a testament to her practical career choice as a CPA or actuary. Accounting wasn’t sexy and no amount of lipgloss or inches of patent leather stiletto would change this fact.

Madison glanced down at her own attire and smirked. Her V-neck sweater, torn Gap jeans and black ballet flats did little to convey her personality or career choice—college student or Wall Street consultant. The ink stains on her finger tips, oversized sketchpad, and traincase full of art supplies rather than toiletries belied the truth. Madison used to carry her pens, pencils, stencils, arasers in a fishing tacklebox, but with new security standards for flying she started to get dirty looks. With the train case—even under x-ray—it just looked like an eyeliner addiction. 

Photo: PinkyMcCoversong

The kites dove, swooped, and called to each other in shrill shrieks. Cicadas tried to sing louder than the locusts that work up on the wrong year. Grasshoppers thumped against the sides of the car angry at the intrusion on their quiet gravel road.

Photo: tfavretto

He was the find of guy with whom the she wanted to drink beer, smoke too many cigarettes and shoot pool before seducing him in the alley outside the pub.

He introduced himself as Paul and she hoped he wasn't named after the least favourite of the saints, but rather a kindly Irish uncle.

Photo: runningWithsissors

Stench

The woman had the shape and smell of burlap sack of grossly rotten potatoes. Aislin literally gagged from the stench of her. 

Photo: tinetabulous

Driving through New York’s Mohawk valley listening to Ryan Adam’s melancholically beautiful voice, passing general stores, miniscule hay farms, and sites where history radiated from the soil.

Photo: mikechro

Elderly lady with hair the color of a vodka cranberry after the ice has melted, thick sunglasses, Rockies jacket, a purse that saw its best days 20 years prior.

Massage

“Where does all this passion come from?”

“Repression.”

Drew cocked his head and frowned. Instead of answering him, Brigid took his forearm in her hands and stroked his skin from wrist to elbow adding pressure with each pass. She cupped his elbow, lifted his extended arm until it rested on her shoulder and continued her gentle massage up his bicep and tricep.

Drew’s sharp features relaxed as tenstion drained into her strong, nimble hands. His lips parted and his breath slowed and deepened.

Brigid watched as each part of his body loosened and slackened: his face, head lolling on a limp neck, then his shoulders dropped.

Photo: oO-Rein-Oo

Drive Home

I preferred to take the back road out of town to avoid the rush of car and truck on interstate 80 but also to let my mind wander across the valleys, pastures, shallow ravines lined with cotton woods and ditches bursting with yarrow and daisies. All the windows down so the music has room to breathe. Hair occasionally tucked behind an ear to avoid looking too windblown. Now that law enforcement’s mission refocused on protecting and serving municipal funds rather than the people, this lonely highway wasn’t patrolled.

Photo: qwert10101