Outskirts

A short story about a dreamer in small town Americana. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

I turned the key in the ignition and drove off. The Kingdom of Blue Collar shrank in the rearview mirror as the beaks of the oil cranes pecked into the earth. The alkali flats were cracked like crème brûlée crust. My dance shoes vibrated on the backseat, steel heels clapping together. Applauding.

 

Light filled the car through the dusty windows. The shoes liked it. For so long they had been hidden in the back of the closet like a dirty magazine. It was not a town for dreamers. It was a town where men pulled food onto the table with their sweaty, callused palms and women cooked and cleaned. Nobody danced.