The Black Thumb #SampleSunday

The Black Thumb

Excerpt

At first, I had been glad to hear from Melanie Polewski. I hadn’t seen her since we had both graduated with our doctorates from one of the top ten literature and creative writing programs in the country. I don’t mean to brag. I’m putting it here as a warning to anyone thinking about getting a degree in literature and creative writing. My dissertation advisor had been devastated when I told him I had accepted a position in the Mahina State College of Commerce. I had pointed out the last full-time English department job I’d applied for had over a thousand applicants, and after a year of fruitless job-hunting, I needed to start earning a living wage. I was lucky to get this job, even if it was just “teaching a room full of slack-jawed baseball caps how to pad their resumes,” as my advisor put it.
Melanie had been less fortunate than I. She had floated around after graduation doing freelance editing and, rumor had it, working for one of those villainous websites with a name like wedoyourhomework-dot-com. Using me as a reference, Melanie had managed to land a one-year visiting professorship in the Mahina State English department, and was staying with me until she could find a place of her own.
“You were right,” she whispered. “This is a nice house. Hey, I could buy it, and rent it to you. And then I could stay over whenever.”
She nudged me as she stood up. “Maybe I could take care of Donnie when you’re too tired. Oh, come on, I’m just kidding. Now where did you say the bathroom was?”
I watched her stride back to the house on long, tanned legs, her tawny hair shimmering in the hot sun. This was going to be a long year, I thought.
I had little to contribute to the Garden Society’s discussion of rose-arranging, so I sat and listened, enjoying the lovely garden. We were invisible from the main road, tucked away amidst fragrant roses and well-tended palms and ground cover sprouting vivid green patches on the black lava rock.
There was no scream of anguish. The impact of soft flesh landing on the hard lava made no sound, at least nothing loud enough to be heard over the roar of the river below us. It took the assembled members of the Pua Kala Garden Society a few long seconds to register a young woman lying face-down on the lava in front of us. We sat frozen in place, staring at the earthly remains of Melanie Polewski.

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