Supposedly, Monday (or Blue Monday) was the nadir of winter, the most depressing day of the year. And while January-February is never a walk in the park (mostly because all the trees are frozen and barren and the ground is choked with snow), it really hasn't been that bad this year. I *thought* it was going to be awful, back in November, when it came on like a drunk looking for a fight, but since then it's more or less gone down for a nap. No massive snow banks, no face-freezing, no storms of wind. So now it's just the everyday sort of drudgery, with slippery sidewalks and weak sun and darkness wanting to rush in.
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
nice work, red.
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