Fiction
The Woodcutter
Cecil sat on the stone hearth in his boxer shorts. Out of habit, he’d taken off his work clothes outside and shaken the bark and wood chips from cuffs and pockets. Work attire now dried on a rack next to the hearth. His wool socks remained on, bunched around his sinewy calves to ward off the draft creeping across the floor.
June 11, 2008
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