The Closest Man to the Moon.

A short story by Robert Cormack.

Laurel moved into the trailer when she started raising bloodhounds, six in all, each one seemingly louder than the other.

“Shut up, Tawny!” she yelled. She was wearing cut-offs, a plaid shirt, her long hair tied back.

“Pike, I think,” she said. “That or a muskie. I don’t know much about fish. You toke? Arnett’s bringing over some grass after his show.”

Arnett lit the joint, inhaled and handed it to Laurel. She did the same, then passed it to me.

Laurel leaned back and looked at him for a minute. Then she put her arms tight around his neck. They just stood there. I had to look down at my beer.

“Laurel? She’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

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I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.

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