Strange. Surreal. Shocking. Beautiful.
Strange. Surreal. Shocking. Beautiful.
I had no tools suitable to the task—only my pocketknife and the shovel—and it was a long, grisly, abhorrent job, but I had to do it, and I did.
At the end of the first act of Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark has a problem.
Now, what you think that problem is depends on how you understand what has just happened. Let’s start with what we know.
Luther shot the coyote bitch on Wednesday. She didn’t make a sound, just fell ass over teakettle into the defile, blood blooming across her neck and chest. She was dead—there was no doubt about that, then or later.
Of all the curators at the Samuel Mather Parrington Museum, I liked Michael Overton the least. He was a loud, bustling, back-slapping man, red-faced and brash and quite, quite stupid.
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