John J. Desjarlais
Shoulda wore gloves. Oziel rubbed his leathery hands, blew on them. Icicles sparkled in a glass fringe along the gutters. He flexed his blue fingers and slid the garage door aside. Needs oilin’.
He scratched a cardboard match to start the kerosene stove. The last match. That’s all he needed. When the burner hissed into life, he warmed his palms. He had good gloves when he worked at the mill. [Read more…]