nearby, lightweight scraps of tin and plywood piled like jackstraws a few feet deep along the roadside,
crowned by tufts of faded orange insulation. Here and there, a pink afghan, a rusty bicycle. Bethany
disappeared.
She had once been lines of neat houses. Most had chairs, tables, curtains, windows,
wires, walls, pocketbooks, clothing, drain spouts, plumbing fixtures,
books, stoves and shards of glass. When she was layered
in soapdust; it was from carving her name out. The tapping bleats her
beaches, to make foam arrive -- to carry her. Fittingly, it was
the week Bethany was born that she first laid hands on the instigators. Each
acorn will be a stalk by the time the settlers are deserted.
“Because I’m all out and I don’t want to drink
the inkjets the boarders left last summer.” “I can’t believe
a person of your stature...” “-- Is what?” “Are you --?” Discreet.
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