Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of August 7, 2022
My backyard is home to very depressed worms. I keep finding sun-dried worm corpses on my walkway. And not even after a hard rain—as they might be flooded to the topsoil. It’s like they just have had enough of being a worm living underground and wriggle to the surface for that long-elusive moment of warmth before being cooked to death.
Her fury, her hurt, her fear and shame was pure focus. She dug deeper into her legs. The blood began to run down her thighs, soaking through her dress and forming a small puddle in the pew.