Tuesday. C's car is chugging, failing to accelerate, threatening to stall at lights. Appointment with garage. Other necessary conversations, then stuff to get in the mail. Writing group tonight. C and I have the key. Perhaps we'll walk ... suddenly, summer is here. Hot in the day, mosquitoes after dinner. Thanks to all our rain. Two weeks 'til cottage.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
Do you I want to know how you know the price of ear hair extensions?
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