Her hair was a corkscrew mane, brown streaked with copper. She had it managed with two thick strands circling her skull like a frizzy halo. A few curls bounced free in silent rebellion as she leapt over the side of her 1965 Ford Mustang convertible, army boots digging into the red desert sand. She was older now—19 and forever wild—her years measured by the quantity of bumper stickers on the silver bumper. True to her namesake, she was an unstoppable force: her words a whirlwind, her actions a juggernaut of long strides. Her bold exterior barely concealed a sizzling temper, and she burst into the room boot-first and dropped down at the nearest table with an ungraceful thump. Sweat had moistened her ruby red tank top. Dust clung to her brown shorts. She was sun-kissed and reckless, loud and untamed. The color of her lips matched the cherry charms dangling from her twice-pierced ears. The bartender brought her a glass of water (she surely needed it), and her face split into a grin as thanks. When he asked her what she needed, she shook her head, indicating that she needed no thing and no one, because she was an entirely independent girl.
It was 1988. She was an outlaw and a saint, a rebel and a scamp. She was free.
A little creative writing to go along with this edit I made, in honor of the first day of July. The summer months always inspire me. It might even be the start of a miniseries.
© 2017 Obliquity of the Ecliptic