Michael Stang returns with his second entry into our contest You Didn’t Write That.
Have you entered the contest yet? Pull down our parameters (hey, we’re all adults here…well?) from the menu bar and pluck the keys. Who knows , you might win…hmmnn..we haven’t decided yet.
West of L’amour
I in my wildest dreams I never thought she would come back. For all of Jill’s lavish cutting ways, her taunts at my foolishness, and I knew she was gone, here she was coming through the doorway. Nothing’s free Jack, you will rue the day.
As I live and breathe, you look better each time I see you. Stick it pal. Let’s get on with it. I immediately went to open the safe and pulled the documents onto the desk. Jill came around behind me and leaned over my shoulder. Her camp’s smoky scent lingered where she stood; a right breast braised my left shoulder as if she was aware, where we touched liquefied like a fourth dimension, fueling out of control. I was glad for the pain of the freight train-headache coming on to keep me in focus.
Forty-thousand acres aired, waiting under a blazed western sky. Ranch hands, with little nothing to do but shade in barns, spent time idle and drunk. The earth held its breath.
You didn’t write that, did you? Nope, your dad did. We sign it we own it.