THE YELLOW PENCIL No matter how loud I shout, my voice doesn’t carry. Only in old movies do the lovers escape on an ice floe. The night supervisor, his face curiously flushed, whispers something I can’t hear to the new girl working the line in the family pencil factory. Later, the worn rubber nub of…

This content is for Basic Member, Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, and Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription members.
Log In Register
%d bloggers like this: