It seems that Olivia got word of my impending tryst with a Royal-Epoch, manual. She packed her olive-green carrying case and left on a jet plane. I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday; Olivia riding the baggage belt into the belly of a Denver-bound United Airlines flight, the early morning rain falling on silver wings fading out of sight.
Out on runway number nine, a moderately-sized seven-three-seven set to go, but I was stuck there on the ground where the hot, Dallas winds blow. Her keyboard felt so good, and the stories poured out fast. Now I’m searching for new words, maybe something that might last.
If she could have read my mind, I wouldn’t have typed so hard. We worked on paperback novels, the kind that Amazon sells. When you reach the part where the spacebar breaks, the culprit would be me. Now she needs a big repair.
Now she’s down in a pit under a florescent lamp, held in place by a giant clamp, and I think somewhere somebody’s texting my phone. And the last thing I see is the card reader blinking, ripping cash out of my wallet, and flying away… like a bat out of hell.
But it was not so long ago but kind of far away, though it seems so very far, and if words are just a potholed highway, our unpublished books a junkyard car. And, agents at a writer’s conference may appear closer than they are.
Agents at a writer’s conference may appear closer than they are.
Rick is an aspiring novelist and an award-winning short-story writer exploring life in Dallas, TX and points beyond.