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    The Fading of Jill Montgomery
    The Fading of Jill Montgomery
    The Fading of Jill Montgomery
    Ebook24 pages18 minutes

    The Fading of Jill Montgomery

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    A woman sets out on a run and soon lapses into recent memories. But are the memories complete? Perhaps they're misleading.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateDec 15, 2016
    ISBN9781370654338
    The Fading of Jill Montgomery
    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough is an award-winning writer and poet. He’s fond of saying he was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. After 21 years in the US Marine Corps, he managed to sneak up on a BA degree at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales in 1996. Because he is unable to do otherwise, he splits his writing personality among four personas: Gervasio Arrancado writes magic realism; Nicolas Z “Nick” Porter writes spare, descriptive, Hemingway-style fiction; and Eric Stringer writes the fiction of an unapologetic neurotic. Harvey writes whatever they leave to him. You can see their full bios at HEStanbrough.com.

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      Book preview

      The Fading of Jill Montgomery - Harvey Stanbrough

      The Fading of Jill Montgomery

      Harvey Stanbrough

      the Smashwords Edition of

      a FrostProof808 publication

      an imprint of StoneThread Publishing

      To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.

      The Fading of Jill Montgomery

      Soon Jill Montgomery fell into an easy rhythm on the trail through City Park. Her arms and legs pumped, her shoulders and hips rolled. It seemed easier than ever before. She felt light as a feather, could barely feel her footfalls on the gravel path crunching beneath her.

      The furrows on her brow smoothed away, as if slipping from her forehead on beads of sweat. They trickled down her cheeks and off her jawline.

      Running every morning was routine. The run, pushing herself, was always relaxing. It stretched her muscles. Hell, it stretched her soul, set her up for the rest of the day.

      She listened to her faint footfalls on the path. The gravel, starkly white in the pre-dawn shadows, crunched, crunched, crunched beneath her Nikes. Her arms pumped, her hands clenched into loose fists. Her breath came easily, rhythmically, in through her nose and out through her slightly open mouth.

      The cool, humid air, a ghostly mist, defined the pines. It draped across the thistle-laden brush, the muted red berries of the holly.

      They were white pines, her father said. Yellow said the guy across the street.

      Tufts of Johnson grass along the path bowed gracefully beneath the weight of dew.

      The air

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