Sunday, 1 March 2015


by Scott Dingley

I sit out front when a good onshore breeze carries away the smog and just salt remains, ghostly fingerprints. I sit and sweat salt of my own, staring at a spot by the edge of my lawn, where ivy meets sidewalk...

Thirty years back, some maniac took a local waitress and dumped her there – drove right up and dumped her, like a paperboy delivers the news.

This is long before I lived here.

But something of that dead girl has been there since; an unfading vestige; a bathtub Madonna blanketed only by Santa Ana winds.

Like salt in the breeze.

Author bio: Scott Dingley likes his fiction hard-boiled and haunted, a gothic horror breed of noir. He writes Westerns too, but that's another story.

Lawn is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.

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