Dear Wigleaf,

Even the clouds are undecided tonight, interlocking arms, then playing some rugged tug-of-war. Someone's in a boat on the lake, tossing firecrackers overboard, each one a mini-bomb, rifle fire, a slap on a thick ass. By the light of the moon I can see sleek-skinned bass and trout leaping over the water's surface, looking frightened to be so free in the night air.

This might be the same guy who took out the beaver dam, or it could be my father who died years ago. Where I live there are a lot of imposters and subterfuge. Some even wear camo pajamas with smears of kohl under their eyelids. Around here, the squirrels carry weapons and the rabbits wear brass knuckles. Come see for yourself if you don't believe me. I've got a spare bedroom and all the blood's been bleached out of the towels.

Just make a left on Wonderland Road, and hold your breath coming down the lane.

See you soon,

Len




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Read his story.

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