Honorable Mention Winner: 2026 Kathryn McClatchy Flash Fiction Contest
As Beautiful as Imagined by George Bowden
As Beautiful as Imagined
Magnolia Kate Branch is the most beautiful woman a man could imagine. I created her
for my next novel, and she seduced me within a couple of paragraphs.
Maggie’s bare feet dangled from the bed of her pickup, a Shiner Bock between her legs;
long legs in Levi’s so tight they seemed painted on. Auburn hair poured gently into her
chambray pearl-snap shirt, caressing the Jiminy Cricket tattoo peeking from the inside of her left
breast – a nod to her always-watchful mom who said a cricket in the household brings good luck.
Hazel eyes so deep and clear they could drown a man. With Betty-Boop lips as tempting
as dark chocolate, she took a long sip of the beer, then sang her best Johnny Cash, “I keep the
ends out for the tie that binds, because you’re mine …
A deep baritone chimed in behind her, “I walk the line.”
She turned. There stood a man with shoulders half the width of the truck’s hood, a
Superman curl in the middle of his forehead. “So, you like Johnny Cash? My name is Drew. How
do you do?”
I am author J. Edgar Truly, Jet to my long-time friends. My given name is Jooley –
Jooley Truly – a nod to a great uncle whose passing showed him to not be the rich uncle
everyone thought. Unfortunately, for my novel, no man is good enough for my Maggie.
The screeching of tires, the blare of a horn. Thump!
A ’79 Cadillac Deville knocked Drew into the muddy ditch across the road.
“Nooooo!” Maggie cried.
Maggie stepped into my life after I submitted my sixth novel in the Harry and Hailey
Hart detective series. In the final chapter, Hailey learns she is pregnant, so she and Harry toss
their Fedoras and trench coats. Harry decides that tracking murderers, swindlers and
blackmailers into dark alleys and dockside bars is no way to raise children. My publisher, who
loved novels one through five, said he’d get back to me on number six.
I tried another approach to Maggie’s story.
Showing a leg as smooth as tan silk, Maggie put her foot on the bumper to tighten the
laces on her Nikes. She straightened her “Willie for President” T-shirt, flipped her Astros hat
backwards and tapped her Apple watch. At slightly taller than six feet, she started her run,
lengthening her stride as if she were leaving the runway.
Another runner pulled up on her left. He was more muscular than most runners who
could maintain Maggie’s pace, “Hey, I’ve seen you running here before. Are you working on a
PR for this six-mile loop? Because you sure take my breath away.”
“Nope,” I decided. “Not this guy.” I carefully pecked out his murder.
She turned, smiled, then shouted, “Watch out!” He missed the orange cones and yellow
tape and stumbled into the sink hole with an “Oh, sh …!” And he was done.
Maggie is beautiful, and I love her. The perfect woman. Unfortunately, she has no skills
to build a novel around. Not a detective. Not a doctor. No mystery-solving about her. Not even
one of those generic jobs like in Hallmark movies where she would vacation in a small town and
find a long-lost, love-hate relationship with some rugged-but-sensitive guy wearing a flannel
shirt and flaunting a career in custom carpentry. Not my Maggie.
I joined my wife, Sarah, and the kids at the dinner table.
“I don’t understand. Maggie’s perfect. She’s the perfect woman, and there’s no story that
deserves her. No man is worthy of her. Harry and Hailey are out of business. With kids,
mortgage, school, soccer practice … no more sleuthing. They’re done.”
Sarah’s fork bounced from the tabletop to the floor. The fire in her eyes made her babyblues glow. “What and who the hell are you talking about?”
She gulped her wine. Her fingertips tapped her forehead as if disarming a bomb.
“Are you out of your mind? Harry and Hailey are done sleuthing? You’d better get them
to Florida, Chicago or wherever they need to go to cover OUR mortgage.”
“Okay, I’m almost there. I took Maggie to the zoo today. She was gorgeous – yellow
sundress, floppy straw hat and oversized sunglasses …”
“Mom!” My 9-year-old son complained, “Dad went to the zoo, and I didn’t get to go!?”
“What do you mean YOU took Maggie to the zoo? Who’s Maggie!?”
I pondered then rejoiced. “Maggie can be a spy!” I crafted the zoo scene for Sarah.
Maggie touched her sunglasses – an index finger perfected with dark ruby-red polish.
She approached the two Russian spies, both sporting Hawaiian shirts and car-salesman-plaid
sport coats. In a seductive Texas drawl, she introduced herself, “Branch. Magnolia Branch.”
Sarah’s wine glass slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor. Her mouth moved
but no words came out. Her silence gave me the assent I needed.
I rushed to my study for novel number six – “From Lubbock with Love.”
I wrote all night and found the perfect ending.
The remnants of the Russian cartel’s mansion crashed in the flames. The world was once
again safe, and Maggie knew she’d found her perfect man. She reached over to stroke his face,
and when her flak jacket fell open, Jiminy Cricket had him wishing on a star. She purred,
“Writers are the real heroes. Now, ‘Mr. Hemingway,’” she smirked, “Punish me like an Oxford
comma.” ###
Our bedroom door locked, I slept on the couch, content with the completion of Maggie’s
and my novel. At some point during my sleep, Sarah had gently covered me with a blanket.
When I returned to my desk in the morning, I picked up the two-inch-thick “From
Lubbock …” and found it open to the last page. A note from Sarah, scrawled in red -- “Kill this
bitch! Now!!!” Underneath, I saw her signature three hearts followed by “and when you go out,
pick up some butter, eggs and milk. I’m making cookies.”
###
