Grant! she calls, jumping up and down on the grapes (?), pulverizing them. Grant!!!
They heard the yelps all the way over at the Annaberg central plaza. “Decatur Lively” reader Jimmy Dieselengine tried to ignore them so as not to alarm the youth with him, his charge for the day, or at least the morning. If only morning would be quiet around here like it use to be, he lamented in his older age, closing in on 64. Retired over a year back and loving it. More time with the grandkids. Like Pete here. Peter Pistle. But that girl, that *witch*, needs to *shut* the *f-* *up*. He rattles the paper to release his irritation, clears his throat. She’s done finally, he thinks, hearing the end of it, fruit kaput.
She produces purple stained feet to prove where she’d been, what she’d been doing. The same colored glass of wine sat at their tip, ready for consumption. Different dimension; didn’t work. He knew there hadn’t been a proper vineyard in town for a number of months, just some leftover, stray vines surviving here and there, not enough to mask the issue. Rose/Eyela/Leila was accomplishing something else. Like raspberry, something the townspeople wouldn’t swallow.
Mike requested she put the feet away and face the consequences, which had actually already happened. Banishment. Burial even. Like Paul and Ringo and especially John before her. Only the wine was left to prove she ever existed at all.
“Buh bye,” he whispered. “Buh bye now.” And threw it into the earth as well.
Sunklands 