Romance Suspense Sellers

His was a pounding headache, a familiar agony that greeted him each morning and usually lingered until mid-day. He closed his eyes, muting the bright light for a delicious moment … but he held them closed an instant too long.

The big SUV entered the intersection, the driver still talking on her cell phone when they collided; she barely saw his pickup truck before she smashed into its rear fender.

“Damn it!” she cried as the air bag deflated leaving her covered with a thin film of white propellant-dust. She tilted her head back and touched the bright red stream of blood flowing from her nose; it coursed around her lips and dribbled off her chin staining her white blouse.

“Shit!” she cursed again, shoving at the deflating, cloud-grey airbag in front of her. She opened her driver’s door and stepped slowly from the Japanese SUV. Her cell phone had fallen to the floor of the vehicle and she leaned inside, retrieved it and pressed a speed-dial number. She never glanced toward the pickup that had spun about and now stood in the opposite lane facing her vehicle.

The driver of the pickup exhaled deeply as he loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He stared through his windshield at the woman standing beside her vehicle. He felt no concern, nor did he feel anger. He looked at her blood-splattered blouse; a Pollock masterwork, he thought.

He shoved at the truck door, a metallic shriek signaled the additional effort required to open it. Standing next to his pickup, he studied her bloody face, crimson on dusty-white, the drying blood turning from red to black.

She finally noticed him standing there, paused, and covered the telephone with the palm of her hand as if to speak. Something about his gaze unnerved her; an odd sensation as if the earth had wobbled slightly beneath her. She leaned heavily against her SUV and turned her back slightly to him as she spoke into the telephone, her tone more urgent now.

“Please … don’t put me on-hold–.” The Insurance Company 800-number she had reflexively dialed did just that. She glanced over her shoulder at him as music on-hold, the volume far too loud, suddenly blared through the telephone.

He could hear the song playing as he approached her; downtown … downtown … . For God’s sake, he wondered, is that Petula Clark?

Two cars threaded their way around the crashed vehicles. A passenger in the first car pointed at the woman’s bloody face as she passed; the driver of the second vehicle was talking on his cell phone and looked straight ahead as if glancing directly at the accident might scar his retinas.

Harvest (Lexington Avenue Express) Specifications
Harvest (Lexington Avenue Express – Short Fiction)

His was a pounding headache, a familiar agony that greeted him each morning and usually lingered until mid-day. He closed his eyes, muting the bright light for a delicious moment … but he held them closed an instant too long.

The big SUV entered the intersection, the driver still talking on her cell phone when they collided; she barely saw his pickup truck before she smashed into its rear fender.

“Damn it!” she cried as the air bag deflated leaving her covered with a thin film of white propellant-dust. She tilted her head back and touched the bright red stream of blood flowing from her nose; it coursed around her lips and dribbled off her chin staining her white blouse.

“Shit!” she cursed again, shoving at the deflating, cloud-grey airbag in front of her. She opened her driver’s door and stepped slowly from the Japanese SUV. Her cell phone had fallen to the floor of the vehicle and she leaned inside, retrieved it and pressed a speed-dial number. She never glanced toward the pickup that had spun about and now stood in the opposite lane facing her vehicle.

The driver of the pickup exhaled deeply as he loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He stared through his windshield at the woman standing beside her vehicle. He felt no concern, nor did he feel anger. He looked at her blood-splattered blouse; a Pollock masterwork, he thought.

He shoved at the truck door, a metallic shriek signaled the additional effort required to open it. Standing next to his pickup, he studied her bloody face, crimson on dusty-white, the drying blood turning from red to black.

She finally noticed him standing there, paused, and covered the telephone with the palm of her hand as if to speak. Something about his gaze unnerved her; an odd sensation as if the earth had wobbled slightly beneath her. She leaned heavily against her SUV and turned her back slightly to him as she spoke into the telephone, her tone more urgent now.

“Please … don’t put me on-hold–.” The Insurance Company 800-number she had reflexively dialed did just that. She glanced over her shoulder at him as music on-hold, the volume far too loud, suddenly blared through the telephone.

He could hear the song playing as he approached her; downtown … downtown … . For God’s sake, he wondered, is that Petula Clark?

Two cars threaded their way around the crashed vehicles. A passenger in the first car pointed at the woman’s bloody face as she passed; the driver of the second vehicle was talking on his cell phone and looked straight ahead as if glancing directly at the accident might scar his retinas.