flax-golden

of boxes and blame It was the box’s fault. That is, if boxes can be faulted for such things. And perhaps it was not the box itself to blame as much as the fact

muses What are you doing? they ask in earnest, curious unison. Writing, I reply, answering automatically even though they ask the same question every day and they often sit directly on the typewriter so

bridge use restricted We reach the bridge on the third day, in the late afternoon with the sun just starting to sag into the trees. We are tired and hungry, having eaten the last

the bunny business We moved the table to the back of the store years ago but once in a while interested customers still come in and my dad points them toward the end of

pocket taxi service We always gave each other thoughtful gifts, it was our rule. They didn’t have to be fancy or expensive, they just had to mean something, for birthdays or holidays or just-because.