Hurricane Drunk

By Laura Bogart

Three stories, three characters, three predicaments. Laura looks at life and the ordinary when it is just a little off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Bird Chapbooks
• Release date: May 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301316748

Book preview

HURRICANE DRUNK

by

Laura Bogart

with cover and illustrations by the author

Published by Red Bird Chapbooks at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by Laura Bogart

Discover other titles published by Red Bird Chapbooks at Smashwords.com

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Table of Contents

Hurricane Drunk

Spilled Milk

Actor For Hire

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Hurricane Drunk

What pissed Dolly off the most wasn’t the guy’s pale, fish-lipped face. It wasn’t even that the Audi he forked around a telephone pole was in his daddy’s name; it was his flip-flops. Might as well go barefoot before you’d spend three dollars for seventy-nine cents worth of rubber; your feet would end up just as dirty.

His shoe preceded him down the sallyport. She hadn’t seen it right away; she’d bumped into Sergeant Reichel when he was holding it, thong slung over his gloved finger as if the sandal had teeth.

This one is just sad, he said, elongating the a in that way that meant there really was nothing else to say. DUI; nailed a pedestrian out with her dog.

Dolly had been over in medical; her pacing irritated the nurse, who asked if she wouldn’t mind taking out the trash. The detention center was just across the river from a spice factory, which tinged the air with a saltiness that always recalled Memaw’s supper table. Potatoes mashed with whole cloves of garlic and herb-smothered ham. But she couldn’t bear to think of meat while holding a bag of syringes.

She’d seen Reichel on her way back in; he greeted her the way he always did, by calling her Parton, even though she was a redhead and only a C cup. He only remembered people’s names when he could riff on them.

When he told her the victim was thirty years old, Dolly felt that full-body hiccup that used to let her know when she was about to catch Memaw’s belt. Thirty was a birthday away. Even that doctor she’d seen last week commented on her age: It’s rare to occur—and be so aggressive—in women so young. He didn’t look her in the eye; he just talked toward the file he held in his slim, hairless hands.

"They couldn’t get