Matthew Gavin Frank
a greater place.” A clutter of shitty activist songs mewls in my head, suckling at the hypothalamus. girl Wanda litters us with refreshments, aphorisms, and breathlessness, and disappears. If i'm an angel, my wings are killing me. I drop Clippy to the soil. After a pair hours of labor, my instrument has shed its profitable character, and that i are looking to ship the blue-handled fucker again to Tijuana to stand his destiny. in some way, this repetitive (the optimists might say meditative) paintings forces me to imagine manner.
Legless scarecrow made from sackcloth, its face composed of wood buttons and black magic marker, its crammed palms above its head, signaling victory over all flying issues. i'm wondering if girl Wanda outfitted it. i'm wondering which people on Weckman have been the crows. The tough journey infected my again and shoulders, approximately inflicting me to cough up the crostini. Charlie held the gasoline pedal to the ground and that i unfold my toes as extensive as i'll, praying that I didn’t topple from the flatbed. ultimately, we shot from.
Tendrils lifting into the wind. Flakes of slightly blue paint fall from the steel to the earth as he pushes the gate open with a splitting creak. He jumps again into the Jeep, drives us past, parks back, and relocks the gate at the back of him. we are going to repeat this method for the subsequent gates. on the ultimate gate, we strategy a command station, now not not like these published on the entrances to kingdom parks. the fellow inside of, armed to be certain, acknowledges the Jeep and waves to Norman. Norman doesn't go back the.
Seaweed) quiche with caramelized onion and feta cheese. i attempted to love it, and at last did. Johanna, now not the world’s largest fan of ocean-born eco-friendly stuff, bitched. She adorned the sides of her plate with those beautiful little blobs of rejected magnesium. Antonio, a fifty-year-old guy from Veracruz, Mexico, with a powerful fifty-year-old paunch, is their sous chef, proficient in his mother’s eating place, perfecting such dishes as final night’s dinner of enchiladas suizas filled with roasted.
The plants and towards the redwoods, status like pillars on a plantation condo for bloodbats and their caged birds. throughout from the bushes, girl Wanda’s mansion sits darkish and quiet, an insignificant footnote on the backside nook of this forested web page. The evening, even within the bushes, is blissfully mosquitoless, the bugs most probably having latched onto Hector, conducted of Weckman through the magnetism of his candy blood. The redwoods rock slowly as though in genuflection to the evening, creaking with historical past, haunted.