On a Sunday afternoon, when you smell smoke, and your brain panics, and you think wildly to yourself, "It smells like burning flesh! Oh, quick, for the love of cashmere, call 911, and scream about the burning!" I’m going to suggest that you take a moment and a breath. I know it’s been months, perhaps decades, since the sun’s been out, but that smell? It’s something known as a barbeque, and it’s not threatening you in any way, unless your brother is out there playing with the lighter fluid, in which case I suggest that you keep the phone handy.
(Last week our next-door neighbor was having a barbeque, and the smoke was drifting across the porch. I placed myself on the swing, right in the smoke’s way, on purpse. I LOVE the smell of it so much I wanted to trap it on my clothes, my hair. Yum.)
Lala and I have been enjoying this blog about doing up a Victorian in nearby Alameda, and she just sent me this page: Crimes Against Victorians. Enjoy.
Get a Free Short Story!
Subscribe to get a free copy of Socks for Alex, a Cypress Hollow Short Story, compatible with all devices!