An answer slipped under the door. Pine needles blowing across the roof. It was an uneasy July, cracks running across the ceiling, the floor spongy in places. The card was square, pencil lines from the center in an uneven web of graphite. Pulling the lines until they slip off the card, meld with the cracks. It wasn’t an answer to a question or the solution of a riddle. No one else had written; the grid’s down, flames in the hills, the ocean, the distant cacophony of splintered lives. It was only apparent weeks later when the power came back on and someone stepped on a line, creased the square, removed any possibility of communication.
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Andrea Moorhead
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