We found her beneath the old footbridge at the western crook of our farm, diary splayed over one knee, scribbling away as she watched the water. Mute and ecstatic was the way a poet might have described her. Me, I thought she looked kind of dead. Every freckled inch of her was hidden beneath a black dress, the kind I’ve heard some call “Victorian” — lots of pleats and frills and such. I’d never seen this particular one before, but God knew that costume trunk was huge.
Clem looked at me. I looked back at Clem.... Read more
TAGS: creative writing
, short story
, winter reading