Late, or way early. Black chill and moisture dripping from the pines with a resinous tang, the mountain's breath easing through the rusty screen.
Black hair, ears glinting with silver, bare shoulder folded over a guitar.
Boy or girl?
Girl, you say without thinking. But there's not much to go on.
Then she sings, a wavering line that grows teeth as it goes, first a charm, then a curse.
What you might hear out the back window of a club after closing time (North Beach, South Chicago, Lower East Side) when the musicians play rough with themselves.
Out here in the the great American woods, you imagine things coming out of the dark, with glowing eyes.
What is she thinking?
The gray dog curled on the gray army blanket raises his head and sighs. He thrashes and turns belly-up, with a commanding grunt.
She laughs and sets the guitar aside, to scratch the dog's speckled gut.
Happy, for once.
YOU ARE READING
THE FERAL STRUT
Mystery / ThrillerEscaping her trailer-trash background for a summer job as a forest ranger in Wyoming, Mary Browne deals with various hazards, natural and human. But when she moves to Jackson Hole, and starts playing with her band, The Feral Sluts, she steps unwit...
