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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