The morning after was brisk, quiet as ice. Each exhalation a white cloud; each inhalation, gag-inducing. As I hurled another shovelful of manure from our frost-slicked roof, reindeer bristles visible in the pungent matter, Dad grumbled on the other side of the rooftop ridge that he kind of missed Krampus. Graham Robert Scott’s stories have … Continue reading GRAHAM ROBERT SCOTT: Eavesdropping
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