Jade Fern Grove landwirtschaft

he forgot how short his fuse was when plainly pomping his head around like a male peacock to communicate basic phrases like, “the weather today, huh?” or “please direct me to my, while misguided, saving grace.”

yes, that’s what i said! he nodded tenaciously.

he knew not of the priest speaking gothic lyricism over head, her failed sons and daughters at such a young age, the names of the men she placed in her throat like national anthems—he could only see his suffering in this conversation and her as a obstacle in singularity.

his name placed him on the quicksands of ambivalence: viewed in both the airs of contemptible or suspect or excess versus reverent or pure or deficit.

girls? girls, plural? as in multiple girls?

he squints at her briefly but skips over this comment, how many children did this guy churn out again? he was so touch-and-go with him, relapsing on childhood memories that he hardly paid attention, in from rivenwood to paleo ….

where is he?, he mouths slowly, simmering with boyish impatience.