For the 2nd year in a row, little Beaver has been declined a scholarship to the elevated wonderland of the Breadloaf Writer's Conference at Middlebury College. She went once as a matted teenager, with jean shorts and high hopes, but it would seem that the value of her fiction has decreased since the glory days of that long-ago August. Ever since she pulled herself out of the gloppy slops of mopey land and traded in self-absorbed, depressing words for the dark and comic, it's been no-thanks and few wins with each application.
Oh well. Beaver has a garden and a duck and her beloved Domo, snuggled inside a drafty, magic cabin. Her words drift up the chimney into the thick night where they mingle with mosquitos and fly, faraway, far.
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