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Audubon Ron

I think you might want to power wash your deck, be it ever so gently.


The man was good at cutting squares. His saw made a noise like hyenas dying. His arms were large and slick with sweat. He thought about the bullfight the night before. The bull had died bravely. The matador ahd been a coward though. Rain threatened but for now,the deck was dry and the woman he desired drank and read in the fine bright sun. The man cut squares. He had no adjectives left.

Suburban Kamikaze

He had never had much use for adjectives. They were expensive, messy, complicated. Like the woman with her wine and her books. Give him one noun and a verb and he could build you a room. Or a sidewalk. Not that anyone had asked for one. Where does it even go?



But the squares would be the same. All of them marching like a fine white column down the strong, bright sheet of day. They were even, predictable and required no punctuation and no mascara to perform. A wall would also rise, in time. No one asks where a wall goes.

Suburban Kamikaze

She'd ask. You could count on that. She'd ask while she was watching him work from the shade, where the wine was cold and the books and newspapers were stacked around her in a wall that went everywhere.


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