By Robert Devereaux
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Poor kid ought to be on his way to church. ” “There’s room in our car. ” She gave him a look. “I wouldn’t mind having his grampa’s income,” said Harold. “Honestly, now. ” “Disgraceful. People fill their minds with trash and he gets paid to produce it, empty-headed boobs escaping real problems by imagining they’re elves or knights or some similar idiocy. Drones. You should see the human garbage that wanders into City Hall asking if this is where T. E. Jameson lives. The man brings nothing but notoriety to this town.
And she was, even though her first time away from her parents now cast them in an odd light. They’d been strangers coming toward the bus in the school parking lot yesterday, girlish memories brought to life, every gesture emanating from them in rhythms that spoke not to what she was, but to what they believed her to be. Now the three of them were engaged in the process of matching soil to uprooted root. Her room, surprisingly small after their drive home, had improved slightly upon waking this morning.
Now the three of them were engaged in the process of matching soil to uprooted root. Her room, surprisingly small after their drive home, had improved slightly upon waking this morning. But there were things that needed boxing away, and June had a feeling the discolored patch of paint above her bed, the hippo face, would now always remind her that she was sleeping in a little girl’s room, a place she no longer belonged, not really, not like other girls her age, not even others who had gone all the way.
A Flight of Storks and Angels by Robert Devereaux