Prologue
Do you live near an airport? Do you fly anywhere? Do you fly a plane? Are you a pilot?
Did you know that planes have to fly at a certain height outside of the Take-off and Landing zone of an airport? Did you know generally if you can read the call sign of a plane, they are flying too low.
It’s even worse if the plane is old and noisy. And, even way worse if the plane doesn’t have a legit call sign on it.
Section 1: AZURE JAZZ
SAMANTHA
He shouldn’t have changed the locks.
He shouldn’t have ignored the lawyer. He should have taken the deal. But he didn’t. So, here we are.
The plane sputtered and dipped. Sam, Samantha, just call her Sam held the mirror in her palm. It was easy enough to catch the sun, dip the mirror down then up, the square small enough to fit in her hand. Yes, it was simple enough to aim the bright flash of sun soaked light right into his eyes. The plane, blue and yellow, with no call signs, only a local phone number area code, three numbers, definitely not a call sign identifying sign of any kind except maybe the local menace type of sign, zoomed up then down the engine roaring through the air each and every day like it always did annoying the hell out of the tiny airport’s neighbors. He wouldn’t stop flying low, flying overhead, invading people’s privacy. He would not stop.
Sam had stopped the wonder boy the mister church going can’t do anything wrong ah shucks good ole boy a local well-known fellow with no hair and a big grin on his face even while saying you aren’t going to tell me what to do and even though warned by the FAA he would still do it, still fly one of his planes down down down and towards her roof and then do twists and turns with the plane leaving her to stand in the driveway with her mouth hanging open wondering if today would be the day he lost control of the plane and crashed into her house, or a neighbor’s house.
Today, though, was not that day. Crash, oh yes, he did, but not into her house, not by a longshot.
TORY
The pond was quiet. A bit of muddy green glimmering underneath the trees, clouds of white puff, light blue sky bouncing across the sun. Tory beamed. This was the kind of light she liked. The best kind for nuances, for exploring color.
She flipped up her sunglasses, noticing the hues seemed a different shade than before, the reflective glass changed everything. She pulled her blonde curls into a pony tail and slipped on a ball cap for the local team, the Oilers. The cap was a deep red with a black oil rig on the front. She didn’t think they were playing ball anymore, or maybe the team names had changed. It had been years since she’d set up her easel by the ball field to paint portraits. Someone had suggested, she couldn’t remember who but she knew it was someone from a local art gallery from one of her shared shows, that she quit portrait painting to paint landscapes.
Sunsets, sunrises, clouds, the Blue Ridge mountains were some of her first attempts and she realized all of it had been done before and she wondered what could she add that was original. She could use different color mixes, different textures for her canvas, but would it matter.
Hopping in her van, the beat up reddish purplish hippie van type of van, she drove around the county stopping to ask questions of anyone who would answer of where would be a good place to set up and paint. This corner of North Carolina was not the same as Georgia O’Keefe’s New Mexico where she’d been a nomad for a year or three trying to paint desert hued portraits. It had strength, though, to offer.
She made a living, not with portraits, but with painting farms and tractors, and sometimes homes. She scoured around scrapped around painting most anything to get gas money, food for meals, shopping in thrift stores for clothes and art supplies. She lived out of the van. It was easy enough. It was built in the 70’s so there was a bed and storage. She kept up a gym membership for working out and showers cause city water is already paid for.
She was fresh from the gym, showered up and wearing a flowing flowery dress she’d bought at a thrift shop for $4 in an orange hue. She liked the way it felt.
She’d driven up and down some curvy roads and found a turn off, a pond and liked the vibe. The land owner gave her permission to fish and paint for $10 a day. Another trip to the thrift store and she was the proud owner of books on how to fish, fishing rods, reels, and other tact plus her painting gear. She didn’t need much else: blankets, pillows, a camp chair, a stool, hats, a used fishing rod and sunscreen for her pale freckled skin.
The pond was oval shaped. It was man made. The mountains hugged the tree line above it. It sat behind a private tiny airport. The first picture she painted was of a blue and orange-yellow plane.
It was mid-morning. Her entire focus had been on a different airplane. This was a tiny white plane. It looked almost like a side car with wheels and wings. It belched noise and sputtered spewing off smoke.
Tory swished back some water swatting at some bees around her head. She added a roaring fire with feet kicked back in hiking boots and socks and hands roasting marshmallows to her painting. Toss in some blue and mountains for the Blue Ridge, and throw in some orange, yellow and reds for a glowing sunset behind.
She was taught in art school to paint the light colors first, then the dark ones because it’s easier to cover over a light color than the other way around. She stood back and sighed. She chirped in her sing song southern Mississippi transplanted to western North Carolina accent, “Now, for some tea and biscuits while I let this sucker dry.”
She jerked off her artist’s smock which was nothing more than a large man’s shirt from the Goodwill. She popped open a can of tea and pawed through a plastic grocery bag for the sausage biscuit she’d purchased at the gas station. She grinned and took a bite plopping down on the blanket next to her easel. She studied her painting. She leaned back on her elbows and watched the trees touch the sky.
SAMANTHA
It’s mid-morning, Samantha thought. She snarled and curled her lips rounding the corner of the dirt road in her classic Bronco. She had called in sick to work, made sure to go to the doctor and feign sick (thank you overcooked broccoli and spoiled cheesecake, no thank you food poisoning but when going for a doctor’s excuse you couldn’t be too picky) to get a note. She’d have to keep this job for a while to keep up appearances. In the south, it’s all about that. Plus, her parole office would hunt her down so there was that. She had gone straight. Wasn’t easy. Certainly wasn’t any fun. But then he had to come along. Mister party in the plane, let’s do fly by’s and roll overs and nose dives, hell yeah that sounds like fun and when you’re up high over 250 feet, or 500 or even a thousand and drunk or high or both or neither but maybe a little of both it’s even more fun. But he got bored, quick. Brantley or mister I can afford more than one plane, got bored, quick. Dumped her. Then the fly by’s, roll overs and nose dives started over her house, her little two level town home she’d barely scraped enough together to purchase on her own. He let her know in a hurry, he’d had his fun and she was on her own. Well, now it was her turn for fun.
TORY
The paint dries quick in the hot humid sun. She’s glad the paint doesn’t seem to mind the weather, likes the finished product. Still, there’s pieces of drippage that need a few more moments in the heat.
She slaps on rubber gloves pulling and tugging against sweat and skin until finally she has them on. She knows it’s overkill, but she doesn’t want to leave fingerprints on her canvas. She removes the painting situating it inside her chair at an angle. With the sun shade up and a rag of an old beach towel from Cape Hatteras hanging on all around it, no debris would dare cling to the painting not that the wind would ever dare to blow again in such a hot month as July.
The painting fixed up to finish baking into the final piece, she places a fresh canvas up on her makeshift portable easel. She’s pulled it together using a frame, and some metal sticks. It was lighter and easy to fold up when done.
She grabs it up and marches to the other side of the pond, tossing back high grass and bugs with her toes as she moves around the muddy bank. She was now facing the mini airport and landing strip instead of having her back to it.
The paints glisten under the light. She scrunches her nose and mouth up watching each plane as it left and departed the tiny hangars.
First an orangish yellowish plane. It was small maybe holding 4 people. Then the little white plane again. That plane could hold 1 maybe 2 people. Next was a bigger white passenger plane that looked to hold 6-8 folks. A deep red plane came next with the prospects of holding 2 people in its cockpit.
Each one, each plane made it onto the painting. A mural of planes, she decided it would be with the Blue Ridge mountains in the background and clouds and sun. She was commissioned to paint this one by a private homeowner who wanted something different to hang up in his foyer.
If this job went well, maybe it would lead to others. It would help pay off some bills and buy some new supplies if nothing else.
The last plane came roaring over. It was blue and yellow. She muttered, “Does that say?” She shook her head. She knew it wasn’t a military plane, but it was labeled as such and she had no idea why. The engine on it roared like a motorcycle.
She wiggled her arms back and forth creating a wave of clouds and sun on a part of virgin canvas. Her bracelet from New Mexico, a silver one her Dad brought her from Utah years ago, glinted in the light as the blue and yellow plane flew overhead. She stopped her paintbrush mid aid when the plane slammed into the ground and crashed.
SAMANTHA
He shouldn’t have tried to fight back. He should’ve stopped when she called out to the little airport and asked them to stop flying overhead, so low, at all hours. The guy who answered the phone claimed he ran the mini airport out in the woods in the foothills of North Carolina and said their pilots would never do that even as she watched the blue and yellow plane flying low over her while she was on the phone talking to him. He said oh that’s so and so, he’d never ever do that.
Turned out that airport guy was so and so’s dad. Turned out airport guy didn’t own or even run the little dip wad of an airport anyway. He just liked to sit in the tiny building on the lot and watch the planes fly in and out and oh yeah way too low.
He should’ve stopped when he could’ve. He should’ve stopped and walked away. But some people never do learn, do they?
TORY
She parked the van up under a shade tree near the center of town. The air smelled of fresh baked cookies courtesy of the bakery below the street. The radio blared weather, commercials and songs. She changed it up, then down, still no news of any kind.
She straightened up her paints and canvases placing them in cabinets or plastic storage containers. Her jewelry, including the bracelet, went into a paper box, then a plastic bag then in a drawer. She only wore it when she painted.
She poured some water into a bucket and splashed it on her face. Next, she dropped in a bar of soap and pulled the shades. She would wash up and change, then go sit in a bar with a TV somewhere to see what was going on.
SAMANTHA
He shouldn’t have taken her mail. He shouldn’t have given a set of keys to his friends, when he changed the locks. He shouldn’t have lied about the weather and pretended he was one place when he was another.
He shouldn’t have run his mouth to people she’d never met. He shouldn’t have hidden his plane at the airport.
He didn’t know when to stop, but he should’ve. He didn’t know when to walk away, but he should’ve.
TORY
The bar was almost empty, but there were plenty of TVs. She had a basket of hot wings, celery, pub chips and two beers before the story hit the news. The Reporter was blonde with shiny fake white teeth that glinted like in a chewing gum commercial, she thought. She pointed to the remote. The Bartender nodded sliding it down the slick wood surface. Tory stopped it with her elbow. She took a slug of beer and turned up the volume.
“There was a crash of a small plane this afternoon in KS Lake. There were no survivors. Apparently, three people were on board. A spokesman for the airstrip the plane took off from said the plane was in working order, but this was an older show plane with no modern technology in it. The pilot would’ve had to fly by sight. The victims died instantly. The names of the deceased have not yet been released.”
SAMANTHA
She sat back on her sofa, all pink and fluffy. She glared at the news shaking her head while squinting and flipping the volume up and down. She kept muttering, “No one else was supposed to be on board. No one else! You stupid–.”
Samantha grabbed a pillow, also pink, also fluffy and propped it up. She smashed her fists into it over and over again.
She told herself: He shouldn’t have talked bad about me. His friends shouldn’t have talked bad about me.
TORY
She was full. Her bill paid. She couldn’t get it out of her head. Who died on the plane?
The Bartender grunted and filled her glass. Tory leaned over licking the foam off then taking a swig.
The newscaster droned on. They were blaming it all on mechanical errors. She raised her eyebrows. She sat alone at the bar. Another small town weeknight at 9 o’clock and every one was home and in bed but her.
She sighed. Threw down some bills leaving enough for a modest tip. Then she headed back to the van steering it to the quietest darkest most deserted parking lot she could find.
SAMANTHA
She was pacing. She kept telling herself to stop. She couldn’t stop. She walked around the coffee table, by the windows, around the counter, into the bedroom, and back out again of the small home she owned by the public golf course. He flew over the golf course too and always over her place. He knew which one it was. He knew which roof to make a nose dive for, then twist around and back up while she stood in the driveway horrified he would crash it that time.
He had walked away from one crash. Everyone was killed, but him. After that, he was fearless. He was invincible. But not really, cause now he hadn’t walked away from this crash. No more nose diving for him.
She giggled, laughing so hard beer spewed through her nostrils. She was cackling. She kept telling herself to stop, it wasn’t funny, but she couldn’t so she laughed in her beer, slurping it down, then another..
She kept up the pacing wearing a path in the beige carpet and spilling beer on the white countertops. It was so easy, she thought.
And then it hit her. Who were the other two? Who were the other passengers on the plane?
TORY
Miss Tory Goodman was about to find out who was on the plane. They knocked on her windows. Shook the van. Pounded on the windshield. Her name was being yelled into a megaphone.
She yelled back she was trying to sleep, to leave her alone. But they didn’t stop. And then the door to her van slid open and a flashlight shone in her face.
The city cop all decorated in a navy blue uniform with a shiny silver badge glowered at her. “Tory Goodman?”
She nodded, shaking, holding her pillow deep into her chest tears sliding down her ruddy cheeks. “Yes?”
He pointed outside into the drifting clouds and bleeding sunrise taking over the sky. “Out! Now.”
He snarled and turned and jumped out of the van. “And put some clothes on first.”
SAMANTHA
She stared all evening and all night into the screens, any screen she could get her hands on using each one until the battery died, then charging it and switching to another device. The light was dim. She turned off the lights in her tiny two level town home situated amongst the others at an angle high up on a hill at the end of the cul de sac. Didn’t want the neighbors to notice, to wonder why she had the lights on all night long.
News reports were slow. No one was much interested in the crash of a small town middle age pilot with a pot belly and a balding head.
She scrolled and scrolled till her fingers felt numb, and the skin grew flaky enough to bleed if she had been using anything sharp. Two passengers. “Two passengers,” she muttered shaking her head.
She drank milk laden coffee, black or green tea, anything with caffeine she could find in the bare cabinets the almost empty fridge. She hadn’t been shopping. Today was her shopping day, or she wondered if that day had been yesterday or if it was tomorrow. She needed to be meditating, to forget, but she forgot. She taught Yoga and Meditation for the local gyms, and for hire with private lessons. She had to appear to be nonplussed at all times…in public, which also meant if she was out on her squared off cliff hanger of a tiny green tinted grass front yard, and at the store. No hint of her ever touching a drop of liquor, wine, beer, none of it. If she drank, she did it in small quantities and where and when no one else was watching. She would drink in public after she retired she told herself.
Had the pilot been drinking, all the reports said No. They were calling it pilot error due to weather and use of manual instruments, not guided electronic ones, until they weren’t.
Who else was in the plane? Who else?
TORY
“I didn’t know anyone on the plane, I swear.” She was staring down, not looking at anyone, picking at her fingers and fingernails. Tory gulped and kept looking down. She’d lost track of how many policemen had been in and out of the small hot box room. Sweat was pouring down her neck her long hair was soaked in the back. They’d taken away her yellow scrunchie so she couldn’t even pull her hair back. He shirt stuck to her skin. Beads of water rolled down her face into her eyes and into her ears. She wondered if this was like cop shows she used to watch when she was a kid. They were trying to sweat a confession out of her. She cleared her throat. “Could I–. Can I have a glass of water, please?” There was no reply, only more shuffling of feet and slamming of doors. Folders were slammed on the table, then picked up then removed again.
She could hear voices in the hallway. She gleaned snippets of conversation: “She’s a painter. She says she doesn’t know anything. No motive. Transplant. Hippie. Artist. Moves around. No address. Lives out of her van. Maybe she really does paint pictures of the planes.”
Then it got quiet. Too quiet. Finally, the glass door screeched open yet again and was closed without being slammed. A bottle of water was placed on the table in front of her. Beads of water slid down the sides. She grabbed it, opened it and swallowed half of its contents before coming up for air.
“Satiated?” A small man with a plain face, round glasses, and red blotched skin in a black suit and tie asked in a tinny voice.
She nodded.
“Good.”
She nodded again. Afraid to move, speak or swallow.
“Do you have any idea who was on that plane?”
She shook her head ‘no’ and stopped herself from repeating that she only paints the planes, never goes to the airport, doesn’t know any of the pilots, has no idea who owns the planes or where they are going, it’s just something different to paint against the backdrop of the sky, clouds, and the Blue Ridge mountains.
“It was–.” He sighed. “I’m not supposed to name names. But, he was going to announce a bid for the presidency. His campaign manager. Him. And the pilot. A secret for hire flight from Florida here to this tiny airport. Seems his kinfolk come from this region. He was set to do a big invitation only fundraiser with this rich couple, Jim and John, up in Blowing Rock. They were to be his biggest backers. The announcement was gonna be made up there too. Not the normal campaign boost. It was supposed to be a splash to draw attention. An announcement for president from the top of a giant legendary rock. Imagine the campaign posters!”
Tory shrugged. She drank more water.
The small detective shook his head. “But you’re all innocent.” He thumbed through yet another conglomeration of folders. “Thing is, you aren’t all that innocent, are you? He held up a couple of sheets of paper. Look here what we found.”
Tory opened her mouth to speak then stopped. Then she took a deep breath and started again. Finally she said, “That was a long time ago. It has nothing to do with this awful tragedy. Nothing at all.”
It didn’t take long for the small bald man with round glasses, a blue velvet tuxedo shirt, black pants, and a pink faced smile to find out. He leaned over whispering to the another policeman shoving his laptop at him. Both of them were looking at her, she thought.
Tory sighed. She leaned back in the blue cushioned chair. The walls were beige. The trim was a dark brown. The table was a dark lacquer brown. She could hear voices and slamming doors. She couldn’t help but think the brown and blue room was designed and a deliberate color choices to elicit confessions. It was not the deep azure jazz soothing blue she’d seen in the offices of politicians. She liked that shade, too, for sky backgrounds especially for the planes.
“The plane? You didn’t know who was on it?”
Tory glowered. She rolled her eyes.
“You know what it says on here, don’t ya?”
Tory rolled up her lips. She refrained from spitting at the small detective bellowing in her face.
“I did some sit ins, sure. Protests in college. Art exhibits and fund raisers.”
He sat. Pulled up the chair right next to her. “Says you did more than that, missy. Says you buried a few walls in graffiti. Even decorated up a few tent revivals.”
“Those things are rigged. They’re trying to con people out of their money for miracles.”
“It’s still breaking the law.”
She couldn’t place his accent anymore. The madder he got the less southern twang he used. It was opposite for her. The southern lilt always stuck and if she got miffed it flowed like vinegar and honey.
The small detective stood. “We’re gonna need you to stay here a little bit longer. So sit tight.”
Tory narrowed her eyes. “Like I get a choice. At least, I’m used to sitting.”
SAMANTHA
She didn’t know what time she’d gone to sleep if at all, but it was the alarms, from across the room, on her watch and on her phone that woke her up. She sputtered and stood up stretching awkward like trying to touch her toes and the ceiling, neither of which she could reach. She fixed instant coffee not because she drank it but because that’s all she could find with caffeine in the kitchen. The fridge was bare too except for some juice and cheese and she didn’t want either of those. The coffee tasted like paste and in this case it could’ve used one of those sugared up sopped up fake milk creamers that cost way too much and ruined the coffee once you poured it in. There was none of that, either.
Samantha jotted down a pretend grocery list because she knew the chances of her shopping for anything much were slim to none most of the time. She was used to going out. Dining out in the next town over or even in a larger city like Charlotte or Asheville with him. He liked to fly her there. He liked to go out of town so his wife and kid at home didn’t find out about her. Now, they’d never find out about her. And, he wouldn’t be buzzing over her tiny home anymore cause she broke up with him.
She stood at the kitchen window and stared out. She could see rows and rows of other tiny town homes situated just off the edge of the golf course.
She muttered, “Can’t believe he had someone else on the plane. Who the hell would fly with him anywhere, the liar.”
TORY
Tory kept saying the same thing over and over again until her voice became hoarse and then she lost it. “I only paint pictures of the planes by the airport. I don’t know anything about the pilots or the planes.”
She said the same sentences again and again while they took photos, fingerprinted her, strip searched her and locked her up in a small cell with no windows. At some point she remembered hearing someone say they found all the evidence they needed in her van, really underneath it. Who would’ve thought a lowly painter could pull off such a fiendish scheme.
SAMANTHA
A painter? Sam reread and reread the paper headlines. The newspaper was only about 6-8 pages long depending on the week. But there it was. A painter who’d sit by the little airport and paint large pictures of the colorful planes. Everything was found in her van. Really, underneath it.
Sam muttered, “That’s what you get, painter. You don’t dare have a checkered past in these parts. Should’ve driven that old clunker to some other airport.”
Sam shrugged her shoulders. She pulled a small square object from her pocket and kept reading. “The pilot, a politician and his campaign manager. So that’s who you were flying around. That’s who you were sneaking around with all this time?” She sighed. Moved into the small kitchen and poured a glass of water. “I guess you were telling the truth.” She rolled her eyes. “But you didn’t have to keep buzzing my house!” Then she leaned her head back and roared and laughed and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks spilling into the water glass.
She kept laughing as she held up the small square. It was a made of glass. She stared at her reflection, smiled and then she winked.
Section 2: SASSY LILAC
BRANTLEY
I knew better. I knew always find out what they do, what they’ve done for a living before you sleep with them, but I was beguiled. That’s the word that comes to mind, came to mind, one of the last words that ever floated around in my thick skull of a head. She came round the airport a time or two to inquire about flying lessons, and she simply hung around. I saw her at the small airport in the next town over. She would come to the aircraft museum, attend the events, and linger in the lobby. She watched the planes take off and land. Said she was interested in learning to fly. She even went up in a tiny plane a time or two, but not with me, never with me. She took a lesson or two.
She smiled the right way. She claimed she wanted to ask me a few questions about flying so we sat at the airport café lingering over thick chocolate milkshakes, grilled cheese sandwiches and fries and talked far longer than it took to answer the obligatory how do you get started in flying and the inevitable do you have a nickname or does everyone call you Brantley questions. I did have a nickname: Bubba. She never used it. Samantha never let anyone call her Sam either even though she almost exclusively referred to herself as Sam. I was the pilot, but she was the one who took flight.
Samantha, Sam. How did I even meet her? I don’t remember. My friends warned me against her, she was from out of town.
Out of town. What’s that supposed to mean?
Fly by’s. We would do nose dives, and fly by’s and make out like mad before after anywhere in the hangar and everywhere.
That long brown blonde hair, freckled golden skin, and her smile would light up the night. We would fly in the dusk, the dark and I would wing it.
She liked winging it. She liked everything about it.
Now, I remember. How I first met her. She worked the night shift at the all night gas station. It was close to her house she said. She could get to work in three minutes or less.
She’d thought it was fun to fly over her house and buzz the neighborhood. She’d thought it was fun to do loops and fly upside down in the plane.
Thing is I forgot to tell her one thing. Okay, two.
I was married. I had a kid.
When she found out, she ghosted me. It was like I never existed. It was like we never existed.
I promised to leave my family. She didn’t believe me. She was right not to believe me.
I flew from North Carolina to Florida two to three times a week. Being a pilot comes with privileges. Airport privileges. Airport lounge privileges. I took advantage of every privilege I was offered and sometimes more than once.
Sam, Samantha was different. I meant it at the time about leaving my fam. She was exciting. Unlike my wifey who was an administrative school assistant. Boring! The kid was fun when we’d get in the plane and fly, but there were other obligations – school and sports. Boring!
I didn’t graduate from anywhere except the mile high club. And flight school!
It really hurt when she stopped taking my calls. I tried to get her attention.
First, I changed her locks. (She changed them back.) Then I hired a lawyer lying and saying she was harassing me. (I had no case. I couldn’t prove it). Last, I did the fly by’s. Do you know how much fuel costs? It takes a lot of fuel to do a nosedive or a fly by, especially more than once.
I started flying don’t ask don’t tell clients wherever they wanted to go. Privileges or not privileges.
I didn’t ask. I didn’t tell. I didn’t question the choice of plane. Usually, they wanted the small passenger plane, but sometimes they wanted something flashy.
This last job, though, I should’ve asked. I wouldn’t have told. I should’ve checked around. It was a big pay day. Enough to actually leave little miss less than perfect wife of mine.
That’s always a clue. If they pay five times as much as they should, you should ask WHY?
I took the bank and banked it. Hid it in my locker in my plane hangar. I threw on my best pilot suit – white with red, white and blue stripes, and even a ball cap. I looked prof! When I wasn’t flying, I spent my privileges over in the open anytime day or night gym so I looked pretty good in that suit. I even took a selfie. You can still see it on my Insta or FB. (Think about that: what do you want your last social media selfie to look like in case it really is your last one … EVER!)
That was in the morning. That was when I wasn’t looking. That was when the politician’s competition’s hired men did something to the plane. I guessed they hosed up the fuel line. But it was slow acting. It was too late by the time I realized it. The weather too foggy. No electronics in the old bi-plane. Lots of NOISE!
When we crashed, it boomed throughout the county into the next. That’s what was written in my yearbook: Brantley, you’ll go out in a CRASH. And so I did.
Little did I know, Samantha had done something too. To the WINGS. And then a flash of light. A mirror. My first and last thought was that Sam somehow had flashed it at my plane.
That plane, my plane was doomed before it took off. Smashed to pieces. Nothing left of any of us.
Me, Brantley, the politician, his campaign manager all exploded into pieces. Gone, gone, like forever.
He would’ve been Prez. Famous Dad. Famous him. Good looking and fitter than me. He had hair too, wild crazy curly locks of gold. I’d lost my hair before I even took one test flight. He had it all.
His competition knew it. She’d just moved to North Carolina to declare (pretend) she had residency. She would run against him for Senate. Next stop: Prez!
Now she could run unopposed. And now my wifey was left a widow, and my kid without a dad.
Epilogue
It wasn’t all that hard to put the pieces together. It made a great story!
Hi, I’m Samantha. Check out my investigative story on the sweet painter who caused a man’s plane to crash, killing everyone in an instant!
Tory eyed the TV out in the great room and fumed. She thought, that woman, Samantha, there’s no telling how far she’ll go for a good story. She muttered “Gas station attendant my butt. She was under cover this whole time.” Tory stood back in the room full of easels and paints staring out into the prison. She heard the announcement for the start of her portrait painting classes they were allowing her to teach. They do that in white collar prisons.
Tory swallowed and grimaced. She scribbled with a pencil on the canvas: this story isn’t over yet, Samantha. Then she snapped the pencil in half and smiled.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LB Sedlacek is the author of several collections of poetry. Her most recent books are “Organic Soup” published by Bottlecap Press and “Unresponsive Sky” published by Purple Unicorn Press.
Her other poetry books include “Words and Bones” (Finishing Line Press), “The Architect of French Fries” (Presa Press), and “The Poet Next Door” (Cyberwit Press).
She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has also been nominated for Best of the Net in poetry. She has had several short stories and poems published in the college literary magazine, “Branches,” winning 1st Place Prose awards for her stories “Sight Unseen” and “Backwards Wink.” She also enjoys swimming and reading.
About the Author
