Copyright © 2024 Jason Farley
For Abigail Elizabeth Zipporah Luthien Cedric St. Patrick Malachi St. Boniface Oferhogode ða sidan herge; no he him þa sæcce ondred, Beowulf Fitt 33; ln. 2347
1
The whole way up the mountain Bea told her shadow, "Work that updo girl. 30 is 20, just with money."
But now, as she walked down the mountain road, she held her phone up like the Statue of Liberty on a rotating platform.
"C'mon!"
Her text to her brother Mel still just read, 'sending,' across the top.
One of the things about leaving before sunrise, it's easy to forget that the headlights are on after the sun comes up. When she got back to her car the battery merely harrumphed.
It had seemed like a good idea. Thirty wasn't old. She could grab her new self-gifted puffy green vest, drive up Mt. Spokane in the crisp morning gleam, park at the closed-for-summer ski lodge, and hike to the top. Then she would call her little brothers, maybe send her mom and step-dad a picture, and hike down.
Now Bea was walking down the mountain road watching her shadow's ponytail bounce hoping whoever she ran into wasn’t too creepy.
And then, from between two trees, a little bearded man popped into the dried creek bed on the side of the road.
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