by Errid Farland
Mr. Popperoy dispensed his wacky-old-man wisdom in a jumble of disconnected words, a Vedic sort of chicken-scratch that sometimes annoyed and sometimes entertained Trace, depending on his mood.
That day, they rolled out and on like tumbleweeds set loose by thirst and heat and time, and they vexed Trace more than anything else, preoccupied as he was with his wifeâ€™s latest discontent.
â€œVishnu!â€ Mr. Popperoy said, like a sneeze, then he followed it with, â€œGod bless you!â€ Then he chuckled.
â€œReal funny, there, Mr. Popperoy,â€ Trace said.
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"Sown Seeds" is roughly 875 words.
Errid Farland lives in Southern California and writes at a cluttered table where a candle burns to create an aura of serenity. Sometimes she accidentally catches things on fire, which turns the aura into angry yellows and reds and sort of wrecks the whole serenity thing. Her stories have appeared in Underground Voices, storySouth, Pindeldyboz, and other places.