Pleased to be included as a finalist. A little message in a bottle from Central TX floating all the way up to Dublin!
By Abigail King
I ran into a friend at the fencing supply, a signmaker. We crossed paths, masked, several times before realizing we didn’t just resemble ourselves, it was actually us.
“It’s the perfect profession for a pandemic,” he said, with what these days passes for exuberance. “I work alone, outdoors, up high.”
How many months, years will it be before I stop visualizing respiratory particles emanating from every open mouth? Their trajectories, the pull of gravity upon them.
The figs on our neighborhood trees are small, hard, green but changing fast. What will the world be like the moment they ripen?