Winter 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 2011 |

Pastoral

"You know? We could make a fire sometime …" "I have nothing. You have what we need?" "Of course." He pulls an oval brass matchbox with a spring lid from his pocket. He sits down and empties it into the hollow of his hand. "See." A tumble of red-tipped phosphorus matches. "One, two, three, four … I've got eight of them." "Eight," she says, "that isn't many." "It's enough, when you know how to do it. I know how. You, you don't know." The one speaking is a fourteen-year-old boy who came out of who-knows-where. And the girl is the one who takes care of the goats. His hands are in his pockets, his nose is red, and his hair sticks up straight from his head like nails. He's holding a rolled felt hat in his left hand. It's windy. It's always windy on these grassy hillocks above the village. The wind sweeps endlessly, coming across the big valley opening up before us, clawing the earth's crust and the rocks and smashing itself against the outcropping where we s

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Crewed Up

By Danner Darcleight

"You know? We could make a fire sometime …" "I have nothing. You have what we need?" "Of course." He pulls an oval brass matchbox with a spring lid from […]

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