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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 3, September 2013

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Glenn G. Coats
Prospect, Virginia, USA


Last House on the Left

The telephone rings at eight o’clock sharp and I know who it is. My wife looks up from her book and says, “Mary, oh dear Mary, she hit that wrong number again.” Sometimes I let the phone ring and sometimes I walk to the kitchen and answer it. “Dorothy, is that you?” Mary asks. “Oh, I am so sorry to bother you again. I don’t know why I keep doing that.”

February is almost gone now. Each day there is less snow on the pasture, mainly patches with pools of clear water that shine like eyes. The fields freeze by night and thaw in the day. Tonight, the phone rings again at the usual time. I tell my wife that I’ll get the call. When I pick up the phone, there is no-one there. “Hello Mary, is that you?” I ask. Nothing. I am surprised by the silence.

tinkle
of silverware
winter dusk

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