As all accidents are about to happen, or strange encounters take place, fate stands at the edge of the road waiting to announce itself, an unseen signpost, an unseen hitchhiker.
The carpenter ants at the union hall read the posters on the opportunity board and massed for the task. George the Squirrel had asked for a contractor’s team to do some steep remodeling work as half his tree home had been bruised seriously by hurricane winds.
Jaeger Brecht believed he could be anybody, and sound like anybody; he could preach what he practiced.
We had come out of the Out Loud Open Mike meeting at Melrose’s Beebe Estate into a slick wind and minor patches of ice and snow.
His wife Millicent had cheated on him and she would pay, but to Everett Harley it was much deeper than being unfaithful;
Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now, lest you ….”
Mother Sow, setting up a birthday party at the back of the barn for twin piglets, said she’d send out for a pizza delivery. “Six ought to do us,” she said, “and we’ll order the big size.”
All things began and ended, Georges Amocine always believed, in shadow, going into or coming out of, cave or womb or thought, place or circumstance not withstanding.
Jim Hedgerow was the boss of Riverbank Cemetery’s burial crew, and this morning he was scratching to make sure he had enough help to “open up” a few places for “quick deposit.”
She hadn’t even stopped to catch her breath.
