Fiction

Oatie He shave in long slow pulls; tighten his face so the blade can’t snare up against the skin of his neck, seventeen inches thick like a bull. He watch himself in a mirror fragment jam up against a knot in a twisted tree, hold fast at the bottom by a vine. Almost nineteen, he…

From Prick of the Spindle – Fiction, Vol. 3.2, June 2009  –  Original Link After a hard day of gathering stone, the old man trudged home. Nodding at his neighbors as he passed, he thought: We live together, but do not know each other. “He was old when my parents were children. Was he ever…