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Willeford, Charles

A Letter to A.A. (Almost Anybody)

In the interest of spitting a sluicy cobwebbed thread to tie together the conversations in and around this corner of the infoweb and its earbound counterpart, I wanted to offer up one more chance to allow our space to double as the hotbed of information on the social and biological activities of the Tree Squirrel, and bring some attention to our relationship with tree squirrels.

In the interest of spitting a sluicy cobwebbed thread to tie together the conversations in and around this corner of the infoweb and its earbound counterpart, I wanted to offer up one more chance to allow our space to double as the hotbed of information on the social and biological activities of the Tree Squirrel, and bring some attention to our relationship with tree squirrels.

For starters, Charles Willeford, of today’s story, frequently set works in Florida, and without being a Florida’s-my-bag sort, he invoked the sticky filth of sweat and exposure to fake everything and always-heated flesh as well as anybody. Another Florida writer, Douglas Fairbairn, writes with the same virtuosistic reverence for, YES, the tree squirrel.

You see? It’s like that Kevin Bacon game, only with rodents.

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By miette

Miette has been podcasting the best of world literature's short fiction since March 2005, when she was just a pup.

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