ONE MAN’S MUSE by Chris Holm
Larry Arsenault could’ve done without the voices.
It was bad enough he had no job. No girl. No favored hangout to haunt, nor any money to spend there if he did. Nothing but this godforsaken place, and the constant company of the voices that resided here. The rest, he could’ve swallowed – accepted as his lot in life. But the voices he could not abide, any more than he could shut them up.
Time was, things were different. Time was, Larry had as decent a gig as a high school dropout in Central Maine could hope for, working the line at the Georgia-Pacific pulp mill up in Old Town. Made enough to buy himself a decent truck (a Ford Super Duty not more’n ten years old) and his knocked-up lady friend a ring (a cheap gold band inlaid with diamond chips, but real gold…
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