Excerpts, etc.

September 3, 2016

    

     Whoever said the rich are just like the rest of us was wrong.

     I stood on perfectly raked shells and looked at the plastered walls, the banks of leaded windows, and the cement pots of brightly perfect flowers that marched up the steps to the front door. It all smelled strongly of money, and it was all as quiet as death. No one here fought or made love, got sick in the bathroom or scraped burned toast over the kitchen sink. Nobody read the funny papers and sprayed from the nos...

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© 2016 by Bob Bickford