Guy brought me in a duck he shot. Wanted it stuffed by the weekend. I told him I could do it, but it would cost him. He said price was no object so I did the job and called him up when it was done. He said he would be right over. While I waited for him, the duck started talking. Told me I needed to branch out. Animals were passé. I needed to start stuffing plants. I told the duck to mind its own business. It rustled and squeaked and shivered some. But, it said, this is my business.
I’m a novelist, poet, and short story writer living in the Desert Southwest.
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