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FLOWER
BOX
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Build me a flower box. Big, she said. I draw plans. Bigger, she said. Draw-draw. Bigger still, she said. She can’t judge inches. I know that. Hold your hands, I said. She holds her hands way out. I measure. Make it twice as long as I hold my hands, she said. I do that. So OK. I build. Saw-saw, hammer-hammer, bang-bang, ouch-ouch¾the works. Big box. Real big. Dirt. Lots of dirt. Shovel-shovel, fill-fill. Plenty of sun on patio, she said. You will grow flowers good. Never have, I said. You will, she said. Shovel-shovel, fill-fill. Whew! Stop, she said. Not full, I said. Enough for now. Its hot, here’s cool drink, she said. I drink. Taste funny, I said. Drink it, she said. Drink-drink. I’m dizzy, I said. Sit on box, she said. I sit. Feel sick, I said. Lay down in box, she said. I lay down in box. Real sick. Box tight. Should have made wider. What this?? Dirt on my chest?? What are you doing?? Petunias maybe, she said.
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NOTE: For as long as my short stories are displayed in this website they are free and may be printed for personal use if the stories remain unaltered and Bob Brown is displayed as the author. Permission must be obtained before the story is printed in any publication with circulation over 1000.
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