Dear Wigleaf,

I am writing you this letter on the back of a wine bottle label here in Socrates Sculpture Park. Forgive the handwriting, as Plato's foot is wobbly, all I could find to lean onto and seemingly a size nine. Via projector onto a brick wall, we are watching The Red Balloon (1956). I'd comment on this wine being Spanish and the movie being French except that I am drinking bourbon from a hooch I smuggled in. It's hot here and I'm trying to remember what life was like the first time I saw this movie, I think I was eating french fries. You ever think about the first time you went into a greasy spoon diner? Life got better after those fries.

I spent this past week at what we writers get to sometimes attend in the summer, known as Space Camp. (boy are my thighs tired. Mmm, bourbon).

How did the Romans keep their toenails looking so neat without clippers? Plato's foot I'm leaning over here is incredibly well pedicured for fourth century grooming, maybe it was the olive oil. Ah well, summer is indeed getting on and it's time to get back to the real world where I blog from the perspective of a sled dog on the Iditarod for money. We live in New York but the house is called Fort Worth, let me know if you're ever in town.

Give em hell, kids.

Bisoux,

Nicolle Elizabeth





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Photo detail on main page courtesy of Naked Eyes.


Read NE's story, "Knock Knock."







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