FIELD NOTES

Ominous whooshing coming from the junior high dumpsters.

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The employees in the florist shop are all named after flowers: Violet at the register, Rose as a consultant, Azalea digging a hole across town.

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People who push their pets around in strollers gather at the park; I’m there, introducing everyone to Cortez the Killer.

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The detective said a half-completed game of Duck, Duck, Gray Duck was the illuminating clue.

More than one person on the plane had a drum machine.

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“Nate, you’re a sucker,” the surfing instructor said. And it was true.

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The museum’s collection of ceramic ashtrays elicits tears even from the fiercest motorcycle gangs, but everyone goes home with a smile.

Elizabeth pointed at her watch as the long con entered its second week of unfurling. 

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Pangs of guilt as I cut the baroque tape with a takeout knife. 

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The president said, “Alligator, alligator! Eat ‘em up, eat ‘em up!” but we weren’t sure whom he was threatening. 

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While driving the snow blower, getting closer to the divine. 

Once in a blue moon I receive an email from someone I don’t know asking if we’re running laps today. That kills me.

Nate Logan