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Crown/Shaye Areheart Books
Listen to Chapter 7 of Slipstream on KQED’s Writers’ Block series
Read “Grace,” winner of a Power of Purpose Award from the John Templeton Foundation
Read an interview with Katia Noyes, author of Crashing America
Poets & Writers
Booksense
Hedgebrook
Michelle Echenique
Artist and designer of this website
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 The La Brea Tar Pits
"It was only when he saw the tusks rising out of the water, the massive trunk trumpeting in agony, that Rudy realized where he was. Surrounded by spires of glass and steel that rose up into the moving sky, the jagged hole of black tar breached the crust of the earth like a cavity in a molar. A memory from his childhood stirred: the mammoth family at the edge of the pond, the fountain splashing forlornly on the gray water. La Brea. Even now the name tugged at the pit of his stomach." (Chapter 21)
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"The sun coming through the window was warm, the smell of coffee and pastry filled the shop, Hilda clinked dishes behind the counter. Across the street, the Union Station rose from its parking lot like a cathedral. The tall, skinny palms that surrounded it tossed in the wind. Light bounced off the pools of rainwater that stood in the parking lot. Rudy blinked. He liked the train station with its intricate, inlaid floor. The high wood ceilings where pigeons flew from beam to beam, just like they were outside, and the patios splashed with bougainvillea. Only problem was, the class of people there wasn’t so good. Lowlifes hanging around, looking for trouble." (Chapter 17) |
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"It was raining pretty hard as they headed for the hotel on Wilshire. The asphalt was slippery. Light reflected on the street and the glass sides of the big buildings, silver on black." (Chapter 14) |
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"Friday evening was like the shifting of the tide in an estuary. The flood of people headed out for the weekend—eager to escape to beaches, golf courses, ski slopes, and casinos—converged with the rush of people coming back home to their own beds and familiar routines. Wylie watched the two streams crash and mingle in the pavilion in front of the bar. From there, departing passengers funneled into the chutes that siphoned through the metal detectors, while arriving passengers were presented with hugs and kisses, Mylar balloons, bouquets of carnations, and crying babies by the people who waited for them in the black plastic chairs. At this hour, just after six, the windows reflected the scene inside. Lights from outside—from the runways, the service vehicles that zipped silently back and forth, and the flashlights the ground crews used to guide the jets to their gates—were superimposed on the moving crowds, the banks of seats, the rows of bottles in the bar, and the pink neon sign of the La Paz Cantina. Only when you stood close to the glass could you see the shapes of the planes drifting like whales in black water." (Chapter 30) |
© Leslie Larson, 2006.
All writings and artwork on this website are the creation and copyrighted property of Leslie Larson and may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author. |
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Union Station
Wilshire Boulevard