Fiction

Collect

Collect

This is a story about compost, and it ends—fittingly—with death.

It begins, however, on a Tuesday: the first Tuesday of the month, at six o’clock in the evening. Six o’clock in the evening on the first Tuesday of the month is a time which, if you were in the know, would signify to you that the residents of 77 Lilac Street are almost done with their House Meeting. Outside the moon takes its time to rise, cannot be rushed.

Elisabeth's Leg

Elisabeth's Leg

We named you Elisabeth after this street, Elisabeth Street—look where I’m pointing now—on the south side of the city, starting at Fifth National Bank—that’s the square building with the bronze cuckoo on top—and it ends somewhere around the big convention center—the glass circle building where they hold the dance recitals and the spelling bees—where it becomes Convention Center Dr. and no longer Elisabeth St.