Fiction | April 23, 2019
BRB was driving to New Morning Market with her daughter when she heard a rustle from the trunk. The child, almost three and stunning in a way that made BRB think she wasn’t hers, turned in her car seat. To their left Mount Tom Pond shone poor and beautiful. Fat men in beige sat in the center, ice fishing. At the farm stand across the road they sold the daily catch, broodstock Atlantic salmon, largemouth and calico bass, chain pickerel, yellow perch, sunfish.
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