It's been a while since I wrote any fiction—almost as long as it's been since I wrote any poetry. But here, for whatever they're worth, are a few of the stories I wrote long ago:
For my friend Sarah,
spelled with an h.
When I was a child and over at my grandparents', my grandmother would often get down from a tin on the top shelf of a tall closet a plastic bag of licorice allsorts. Each one was different: some were short cylinders of black licorice, others were more like fat coins coated with blue beads, still others were square-shaped like small sandwiches. Some I liked and some I didn't like, but somehow they all seemed to belong together. The sandwich-squares, which combined three different colours and flavors in one bite (or two, if I wanted to make them last longer), were my favorites. They still are, but now I eat and enjoy every kind: and they
do all belong together.
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