Dark Empty House Time and Again Breece D j Pancake

"Trilobites"

past

Breece D'J. Pancake

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I open up the truck's door, step onto the brick side street. I await at Visitor Hill over again, all sort of worn down and round. A long fourth dimension ago it was real craggy, and stood like an island in the Teays River. It took over a million years to make that smooth trivial hill, and I've looked all over information technology for trilobites. I think how information technology has e'er been at that place and always will exist, least for every bit long as it matters. The air is smoky with summertime. A bunch of starlings swim over me. I was built-in in this country and I have never very much wanted to leave. I remember Popular'southward dead eyes looking at me. They were existent dry, and that took something out of me. I shut the door, head for the café.

I encounter a concrete patch in the street. It'south shaped like Florida, and I recollect what I wrote in Ginny'southward yearbook: "We will live on mangoes and love." And she upwardly and left without me—two years she's been down at that place without me. She sends me postcards with alligator wrestlers and flamingos on the front. She never asks me whatever questions. I experience like a real fool for what I wrote, and get into the café.

The identify is empty, and I residue in the cooled air. Tinker Reilly's picayune sister pours my coffee. She has expert hips. They are kind of similar Ginny'south and they slope nice curves to her legs. Hips and legs like that climb steps into airplanes. She goes to the counter end and scoffs down the balance of her sundae. I smiling at her, but she's jailbait. Jailbait and black snakes are ii things "Won't touch with a window pole. Ane time I used an erstwhile blackness snake for a bullwhip, snapped the sucker's head off, and Popular vanquish hell out of me with it. I think how Pop could make me pretty mad sometimes. I grin.

I call back about concluding nighttime when Ginny chosen. Her onetime man drove her down from the airdrome in Charleston. She was already bored. Can we get together? Sure. Possibly practice some brew? Certain. Same old Colly. Same old Ginny. She talked through her beak. I wanted to tell her Pop had died, and Mom was on the warpath to sell the farm, but Ginny was talking through her beak. It gave me the creeps.

Just like the cups give me the creeps. I look at the cups hanging on pegs by the storefront. They're decal-named and covered with grease and dust. There'due south iv of them, and one is Pop's, only that isn't what gives me the creeps. The cleanest one is Jim'due south. Information technology'due south make clean considering he nonetheless uses information technology, but information technology hangs in that location with the balance. Through the window, I tin see him crossing the street. His joints are cemented with arthritis. I remember of how long it'll exist earlier I croak, but Jim is old, and it gives me the creeps to see his cup hanging up at that place. I go to the door to aid him in.

He says, "Tell the truth, now," and his old paw pinches my arm.

I say, "Tin't practice her." I help him to his stool.

I pull this globby stone from my pocket, and slap it on the counter in forepart of Jim. He turns it with his drawn hand, examines it. "Gastropod," he says. "Probably Permian. You buy over again." I tin't win with him. He knows them all.

"I still tin't find a trilobite," I say.

"At that place are a few," he says. "Not many. Nearly of the outcrops effectually here are too tardily for them."

The daughter brings Jim's coffee in his cup, and nosotros picket her pump dorsum to the kitchen. Good hips.

"You run into that?" He jerks his head toward her.

I say, "Moundsville Molasses." I tin spot jailbait by a mile.

"Hell, girl's age never stopped your dad and me in Michigan."

"Tell the truth."

"Sure. You got to time it and so you blast the first freight out when your pants are up."

I wait at the windowsill. Information technology is speckled with the crisp skeletons of flies. "Why'd you lot and Pop leave Michigan?"

The crinkles around Jim's eyes get slack. He says, "The state of war," and sips his coffee.

I say, "He never fabricated it back in that location."

"Me either—always wanted to—there or Frg—simply to look around."

"Yeah, he promised to show me where you all buried that silverware and stuff during the war."

He says, "On the Elbe. Probably plowed up past now."

My centre socket reflects in my coffee, steam curls around my face, and I feel a headache coming on. I look up to ask Tinker'due south sister for an aspirin, just she is giggling in the kitchen.

"That's where he got that wound," Jim says. "Got it on the Elbe. He was out a long fourth dimension. Cold, Jesus, it was cold. I had him for dead, merely he came to. Says, 'I been all over the world'; says, 'China's so pretty, Jim.'"

"Dreaming?"

"I don't know. I quit worrying almost that stuff years ago."

Tinker'due south sister comes up with her coffeepot to make us for a tip. I ask her for an aspirin, and see she's got a pimple on her collarbone. I don't remember seeing pictures of China. I scout little sister'southward hips.

"Trent nevertheless wanting your place for that housing project?"

"Certain," I say. "Mom'll probably sell it, too. I can't run the place like Pop did. Cane looks bad as hell." I drain off my cup. I'm tired of talking about the farm. "Going out with Ginny tonight," I say.

"Requite her that for me," he says. He takes a poke at my whang. I don't like it when he talks about her like that. He sees I don't like it, and his smiling slips. "Found a lot of gas for her old human being. 1 hell of a guy before his wife pulled out."

I cycle on my stool, clap his weak quondam shoulder. l thnk of Pop, and endeavour to joke. "You lot stink so bad the undertaker's post-obit you."

He laughs. "You lot were the ugliest baby always born, y'all know that?"

I smiling, and outset out the door. I can hear him shout to little sister: "Come on over here, honey, I got a joke for y'all."

he sky has a moving-picture show. Its heat burns through the common salt on my skin, draws information technology tight. I start the truck, bulldoze west along the highway built on the dry out bed of the Teays. At that place's wide bottoms, and the hills on either side take yellowy billows the lord's day can't burn off. I pass an atomic number 26 sign put upwardly past the WPA: "Surveyed by George Washington, the Teays River Superhighway." I encounter fields and cattle where buildings stand, picture them from some long-off time.

I plow off the main route to our house. Clouds brand the sunshine blink calorie-free and dark in the yard. I look again at the spot of footing where Pop fell. He had lain spread-eagled in the thick grass after a sliver of metallic from his quondam wound passed to his brain. I think thinking how browbeaten his confront looked with prints in it from the grass.

I reach the loftier barn, and outset my tractor, then drive to the knob at the cease of our land and end. I sit there, smoke, wait again at the cane. The rows bend tight, but effectually them is a sort of scar of clay, and the leaves have a purplish blight. I don't wonder well-nigh the bane. I know the cane is too far gone to worry about the blight. Far off, somebody chops forest, and the ax-bites repeat back to me. The hillsides are broiled hither and accept heat-ghosts. Our cattle move to the wind gap, and birds hide in caps of trees where nosotros never cut the timber for pasture. I wait at the wrinkly old boundary post. Popular prepare it when the hobo and soldier days were over. It is a locust-tree post, and volition be there a long fourth dimension. A few dead morning glories cling to it.

"I'm only not no good at it," I say. "It just don't practice to work your ass off at something y'all're not no skilful at."

The chopping stops. I listen to the beat of grasshopper wings, and strain to spot blight on the far side of the bottoms.

I say, "Yessir, Colly, you couldn't grow pole beans in a pile of horseshit."

I squash my cigarette against the floor plate. I don't desire a fire. I press the starter, and bump effectually the fields, and then down to the ford of the drying creek, and up the other side. Turkles fall from logs into stagnant pools. I stop my machine. The cane hither is just as bad. I rub a sunburn into the back of my cervix.

I say, "Shot to hell, Gin. Can't do aught right."

I lean back, try to forget these fields and flanking hills. A long fourth dimension before me or these tools, the Teays flowed here. I can almost experience the cold waters and the tickling the trilobites make when they crawl. All the water from the one-time mountains flowed west. But the state lifted. I have only the bottoms and stone animals I collect. I blink and breathe. My father is a khaki cloud in the canebrakes, and Ginny is no more to me than the bitter olfactory property in the blackberry briers upwards on the ridge.

I take up my sack and gaff for a turkle. Some quick chubs flash under the banking concern. In the moss-dapples, I see rings spread where a turkle ducked nether. This sucker is mine. The pool smells like rot, and the dominicus is a hardish brownish.

I wade in. He goes for the roots of a log. I shove around, and feel my gaff twitch. This is a smart turkle, merely still a sucker. I bet he could pull liver off a hook for the remainder of his days, simply he is a sucker for the roots that hold him while I work my gaff. I pull him up, and see he is a snapper. He'southward got his stubby neck curved round, bitter at the gaff. I lay him on the sand, and take out Popular'south knife. I step on the shell, and press hard. That fatty cervix gets skinny quick, and sticks way out. A little claret oozes from the gaff wound into the grit, but when I slice, a puddle forms.

A voice says, "Get a dragon, Colly?"

I shiver a little, and look up. It's merely the loansman standing on the creekbank in his tan suit. His face up is splotched pinkish, and the sun is turning his glasses black.

"I crave them now and over again," I say. I go on slitting gristle, skinning dorsum the shell.

"Aw, your daddy loved turtle meat," the guy says.

I mind to scratching cane leaves in the tardily sun. I dump the tripes into the puddle, bag the residue, and caput upwards the ford. I say, "What tin can I exercise for you?"

This guy starts upwards: "I saw you from the road—just came down to see most my offering." "I told you yesterday, Mr. Trent. It own't mine to sell." I tone it down. I don't want hard feelings. "You lot got to talk to Mom."

Claret drips from the poke to the dust. Information technology makes nighttime paste. Trent pockets his easily, looks over the cane. A cloud blocks the sun, and my ingather glows greenish in the shade.

"This is nigh the last real farm left around hither," Trent says.

"Blight'll get what the dry left," I say. I shift the sack to my free hand. I see I'g giving in. I'm letting this guy go and push me around.

"How's your mother getting along?" he says. I run across no eyes behind his smoky glasses.

"Pretty good," I say. "She's wanting to move to Akron." I swing the sack a fiddling toward Ohio, and spray some blood on Trent's pants. "Distressing," I say.

"Information technology'll come out," he says, simply I hope not. I grin and watch the turkle'southward rima oris gape on the sand. "Well, why Akron?" he says. "Family at that place?"

I nod. "Hers," I say "She'll take you upward on the offer." This hot shadow saps me, and my vocalisation is a whisper. I throw the sack to the floor plate, climb up to grind the starter. I experience amend in a way I've never known. The hot metal seat burns through my jeans.

"Saw Ginny at the post role," this guy shouts. "She certain is a pretty."

I wave, well-nigh smile, as I gear to lumber up the dirt road. I pass Trent's dusty Lincoln, move abroad from my bitten cane. Information technology tin can go now; the stale seed, the drought, the blight—it can become when she signs the papers. I know I will always be to arraign, merely it can't just be my mistake. "What about y'all?" I say. "Your side hurt all that forenoon, but you wouldn't come across no doc. Nosir, you had to see that your impaired boy got the crop put proper in the footing." I shut my trap to go along from talking like a fool.

stop my tractor on the terraced road to the befouled, and await dorsum beyond the cane to the creekbed. Yesterday, Trent said the bottoms would be filled with dirt. That will put the houses above flood, merely information technology'll enhance the flood line. Under all those houses, my turkles will turn to stone. Our Herefords make rusty patches on the hill. I see Pop's grave, and wonder if the new loftier waters will become over information technology.

I watch the cattle play. A pelting must be coming. A rain is always coming when cattle play. Sometimes they play for snowfall, only mostly it is rain. After Pop whipped the daylights out of me with that blackness snake, he hung it on a fence. Just it didn't pelting. The cattle weren't playing, and it didn't rain, but I kept my mouth shut. The snake was bad enough, I didn't desire the belt as well.

I look a long time at that hill. My first time with Ginny was in the tree-cap of that hill. I call back of how close nosotros could be then, and maybe even now, I don't know. I'd like to go with Ginny, fluff her hair in any other field. But I can see her in the post part. I bet she was sending postcards to some guy in Florida.

I drive on to the befouled, stop nether the shed. I wipe sweat from my face with my sleeve, and see how the seams have slipped from my shoulders. If I sit rigid, I can fill them again. The turkle is moving in the sack, and it gives me the creeps to hear his beat out clinking against the gaff. I take the poke to the spigot to clean the game. Pop ever liked turkle in a mulligan. He talked a lot about mulligan and the jungles just an hour earlier I constitute him.

I wonder what it volition be like when Ginny comes by. I hope she's not talking through her bill. Peradventure she'll take me to her house this fourth dimension. If her momma had been everyone but Popular'due south cousin, her one-time human being would let me go to her house. Spiral him. But I tin talk to Ginny. I wonder if she remembers the plans we made for the farm. And we wanted kids. She ever nagged about a peacock. I will go her ane.

I smile as I dump the sack into the rusty sink, but the barn smell—the hay, the cattle, the gasoline—it reminds me. Me and Popular built this barn. I look at every nail with the same slow pain.

I clean the meat, and lay information technology out on a slice of cloth torn from an onetime bed canvass. I fold the corners, walk to the house.

The air is hot, just information technology sort of churns, and the set screens in the kitchen window rattle. From within, I can hear Mom and Trent talking on the front end porch, and I go out the window up. Information technology is the same come-on he gave me yesterday, and I bet Mom is eating it up. She probably thinks about tea parties with her cousins in Akron. She never listens to what anybody says. She simply says all right to annihilation everyone just me or Pop ever said. She fifty-fifty voted for Hoover before they got married. I throw the turkle meat into a skillet, get a beer. Trent softens her up with me; I prick my ears.

"I would wager on Colly'due south agreement," he says. I tin can yet hear a colina twang in his phonation.

"I told him Sam'd put him on at Goodrich," she says. "They'd teach him a trade."

"And at that place are a good many immature people in Akron. You know he'd exist happier." I think how his vocalism sounds similar a damn TV. "Well, he's awful skilful to continue me company. Don't go out none since Ginny took off to that college."

I lean against the sink, rub my hands across my face. The smell of turkie has soaked between my fingers. It's the aforementioned smell equally the pools.

Through the door to the living room, I see the rock case Popular built for me. The white labels prove up backside the night gloss of drinking glass. Ginny helped me find over half of those. If I did report in a college, I could come up back and accept Jim'south place at the gas wells. I like to hold lilliputian stones that lived so long ago. Just geology doesn't mean lick to me. I can't even notice a trilobite.

I stir the meat, listen for noise or talk on the porch, only there is none. I await out. A lightning flash peels shadows from the thousand, and leaves a dark strip nether the eave of the barn. I feel a scum on my skin in the still air. I take my supper to the porch.

I await down the valley to where bison used to graze before the first rails were put down. Now those rails are covered with a highway, and cars rush back and forth in the wind. I watch Trent'south automobile back out, heading east into town. I'm afraid to enquire right off if he got what he wanted.

I stick my plate under Mom'southward nose, merely she waves information technology off. I sit in Pop'southward old rocker, watch the storm come up. Dust devils puff around on the berm, and maple sprigs land in the 1000 with their white bellies upwards. Across the road, our windbreak bends, rows of cedars furling every which style at in one case.

"Coming a big 1?" I say.

Mom says nix and fans herself with the funeral home fan. The wind layers her hair, only she keeps that cardboard picture of Jesus bobbing similar crazy. Her confront changes. I know what she thinks. She thinks how she isn't the daughter in the moving-picture show on the mantel. She isn't standing with Pop's garrison cap artsy on her head.

"I wish you'd of come out while he's here," she says. She stares across the road to the windbreak.

"I heard him yesterday," I say.

"Information technology ain't that at all," she says, and I lookout man her brow come downwards a little. "It's like when Jim called u.s.a. askin' if we wanted some beans an' I had to tell him to leave 'em in the truck at church. I swan how folks talk when men come 'round a widow."

I know Jim talks like a dumb one-time fart, but it isn't like he'd rape her or anything. I don't want to contend with her. "Well," I say, "who owns this identify?"

"We withal do. Don't have to sign nothin' till tomorrow."

She quits bobbing Jesus to look at me. She starts upward: "You'll like Akron. Police, I bet Marcy'southward youngest girl'd dearest to see y'all. She's a regular rock hound too. 'Sides, your father always said we'd move in that location when y'all got big enough to run the subcontract."

I know she has to say it. I only go along my mouth shut. The rain comes, ringing the roof tin. I watch the high wind snap branches from the trees. Pale splinters of calorie-free shoot down behind the far hills. We are just brushed by this storm.

inny's sports car hisses east on the road, honking equally it passes, but I know she will exist back.

"But like her momma," Mom says, "racin' the devil for the beer joints."

"She never knew her momma," I say. I gear up my plate on the floor. I'chiliad glad Ginny thought to honk.

"What if I'south to run off with some foreman from the wells?"

"Y'all wouldn't practise that, Mom."

"That'southward right," she says, and watches the cars coil by. "Shot her in Chicago. Shot hisself too."

I await beyond the hills and time. At that place is red pilus clouding the pillow, claret-splattered by the slug. Another body lies rumpled and warm at the bed foot.

"Folks said he done it cause she wouldn't marry him. Found two weddin' bands in his pocket. Feisty little I-taliun."

I see police and reporters in the tiny room. Mumbles spill into the hallway, simply nobody really looks at the dead woman'due south face.

"Well," Mom says, "at least they was still wearin' their clothes."

The rain slows, and for a long time I sit watching the blueish chicory swaying beside the road. I call back of all the people I know who left these hills. Merely Jim and Pop came back to the land, worked it.

"Lookee at the willow wisps." Mom points to the hills.

The rain trickles, and every bit it seeps in to cool the ground, a fog rises. The fog curls little ghosts into the branches and gullies. The sunday tries to sift through this mist, but is only a tarnished brownish splotch in the pinkish sky. Wherever the fog is, the light is a glassy orange.

"Tin't retrieve the name Popular gave it," I say.

The colors shift, trade tones.

'He had some funny names all right. Called a tomcat a 'pussy scat.'"

I call up back. "Cornflakes were 'pone-rakes,' and a chicken was a 'sick-united nations.'"

We express mirth.

'Well," she says, "he'll always be a part of usa."

The glommy paint on the chair arm packs under my fingernails. I call back how she could foul upwards a free tiffin.

I stand to go in, but I hold the screen, await for something to say.

'I own't going to live in Akron," I say.

'An' just where you gonna alive, Mister?"

"I don't know."

She starts upwardly with her fan again.

'Me and Ginny'due south going depression-riding," I say.

She won't await at me. "Get in early. Mr. Trent don't keep no late hours for no beer drinkers."

The business firm is quiet, and I tin can hear her out there sniffling. Simply what to hell can I do virtually information technology? I hurry to wash the smell of turkle from my easily. I shake all over while the h2o flows downwards. I talked back. I've never talked back. I'm scared, only I stop shaking. Ginny can't see me shaking. I only walk out to the road without ever looking back to the porch.

I climb in the car, let Ginny kiss my cheek. She looks dissimilar. I've never seen these clothes, and she wears too much jewelry.

"You lot look slap-up," she says. "Haven't changed a bit"

'We drive w along the Pike.

"Where we going?"

She says, "Let's park for old times' sake. How'southward the depot?"

I say, "Sure." I accomplish back for a tin can of Falls Urban center. "You let your hair grow."

"You lot similar?"

"Um, yes."

Nosotros drive. I wait at the tinged fog, the colors irresolute hue.

She says, "Sort of an eerie evening, huh?" It all comes from her beak.

"Pop always called it a fool's fire or something."

We pull in beside the onetime depot. It'due south mostly boarded up. We beverage, watch the colors slip to gray dusk in the heaven.

"You ever await in your yearbook?" I gulp down the balance of my Urban center.

She goes crazy laughing. "You know," she says, "I don't fifty-fifty know where I put that matter."

I experience manner also mean to say anything. I await across the railroad to a field sown in timothy. There are wells there, pumps to suck the ancient gases. The gas burns blue, and I wonder if the ancient sunday was blueish. The tracks run on till they're a dot in the brown haze. They give off clicks from their switches. Some tankers wait on the spur. Their wheels are rusting to the tracks. I wonder what to hell I ever wanted with trilobites.

"Big night in Rock Camp," I say. I watch Ginny drink. Her skin is then white it glows yellowish, and the last light makes sparks in her ruby-red pilus.

She says, "Daddy would raise hell.Me this close to the wells."

"You're a big girl now. C'mon, let'south walk."

We go out, and she up and grabs my arm. Her fingers experience like ribbons on the veins of my paw.

"How long you in for?" I say.

"Simply a week here, and then a week with Daddy in New York. I can't wait to get back. Information technology'south great."

"You got a guy?"

She looks at me with this funny smiling of hers. "Yeah, I got a guy. He's doing plankton enquiry."

E'er since I talked back, I've been afraid, but now I hurt again. We come to the tankers, and she takes hold on a ladder, steps upwards.

"This right?" She looks funny, all crouched in like she's just nailed a drag on the fly. I laugh.

"Nail the stop nearest the engine. If yous skid, you get throwed clear. Manner yous are a elevate on the fiy'd suck y'all under. 'Sides, nobody'd ride a tanker."

She steps downwardly, simply doesn't take my mitt. "He taught you everything. What killed him?"

"Fiddling vanquish fragment. Been in him since the state of war. Got in his blood . . ." I snap my fingers. I desire to talk, merely the picture won't become words. I see myself scattered, every prison cell miles from the others. I pull them back and kneel in the dark grass. I roll the body faceup, and look in the eyes a long time before I close them. "Y'all never talk about your momma," I say.

She says, "one don't want to," and goes running to an open window in the depot. She peeks in, turns to me. "Can we go in?"

"Why? Aught in there but old freight scales."

"Because it's spooky and neat and I want to." She runs dorsum, kisses me on the cheek. "I'g bored with this glum look. Smile!"

I surrender, and walk to the depot. I drag a rotten demote under the broken window, and climb in. I take Ginny'due south hand to help her. A bract of glass slices her forearm. The cut path is shallow, but I take off my T-shirt to wrap it. The blood blots purple on the fabric.

"Injure?"

'Not really."

I watch a mud dauber state on the glass blade. Its metallic-blue wings flick equally it walks the edge. Information technology sucks what the glass has scraped from her skin. I hear them working in the walls.

Ginny is at the other window, and she peers through a knothole in the plywood.

I say, "Encounter that light green spot on the second hill?"

"Yep."

"That's the copper on your-all'due south roof."

She turns, stares at me.

"I come hither lots," I say. I breathe the musty air. I plow away from her, and look out the window to Company Hill, but I can feel her stare. Company Hill looks bigger in the dusk, and I recall of all the hills around town I've never gear up pes on. Ginny comes up backside me, and there'due south a glass-crunch with her steps. The hurt arm goes around me, the tiny spot of blood cold against my dorsum.

"What is it, Colly? Why can't we have any fun?"

"When I was a young punk, I tried to run away from home. I was walking through this meadow on the other side of the Colina, and this shadow passed over me. I honest to god thought information technology was a pterodactyl. Information technology was a damned plane. I was so damn mad, I came dwelling house." I pare chips of paint from the window frame, wait for her to talk. She leans confronting me, and I osculation her real deep. Her waist bunches in my easily. The pare of her neck is most too white in the faded evening. I know she doesn't sympathise.

I slide her to the flooring. Her scent rises to me, and I shove crates aside to make room. I don't look. She isn't making love, she'south getting laid. All correct, I think, all right. Get laid. I pull her pants around her ankles, heat her. I think of Tinker'south sister. Ginny isn't here. Tinker'due south sister is under me. A wash of bluish light passes over me. I open my optics to the floor, odour that tang of rain- wet woods. Black snakes. It was the merely time he had to whip me.

"Let me become with yous," I say. I want to be sorry, simply I can't.

"Colly, please. . ." She shoves me back. Her head is rolling in splinters of paint and drinking glass.

I expect a long fourth dimension at the hollow shadows hiding her optics. She is somebody I met a long time ago. I can't remember her name for a minute, then it comes back to me. I sit against the wall and my spine aches. I listen to the mud daubers edifice nests, and trace a finger along her pharynx.

She says, "I want to go. My arm hurts." Her vocalization comes from someplace deep in her breast.

Nosotros climb out. A yellow lite burns on the crossties, and the switches click. Far away, I hear a train. She gives me my shirt, and gets in her car. I stand at that place looking at the claret spots on the material. I feel erstwhile equally hell. When I look upward, her taillights are scarlet blurs in the fog.

I walk around to the platform, slump on the bench. The evening cools my eyelids. I think of how that one time was the only plane that always passed over me.

I flick my father—a young hobo with the Michigan sunset making him squint, the lake backside him. His face is difficult from all the days and places he fought to live in, and of a sudden, I know his fault was coming back here to set that locust-tree post on the knob.

"Ever notice how merely bluish lightning bugs come out subsequently a rain? Green ones almost never do."

I hear the train coming. She is highballing all right. No stiffs in that blind baggage.

"Well, yous know the Teays must of been a large river. Simply stand on Company Hill, and wait across the bottoms. You'll run across."

My skin is heavy with her racket. Her low-cal cuts a wide slice in the fog. No potent in his right mind could try this one on the fly. She'due south hell-bent for election.

"Jim said it flowed west by northwest—all the style up to the old St. Lawrence Drain. Had garfish—10, maybe twenty foot long. Said they're still in there."

Good onetime Jim'll probably croak on a prevarication like that. I watch her beat past. A worn-out tie belches mud with her weight. She's merely too fast to jump. Manifestly and simple.

I go up. I'll spend tonight at home. I've got eyes to shut in Michigan—maybe even Frg or Prc, I don't know yet. I walk, simply I'm non scared. I experience my fear moving away in rings through time for a million years.

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Source: https://biblioklept.org/2018/02/13/read-trilobites-a-short-story-by-breece-dj-pancake/

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