My own wife was back somewhere holding her side, not laughing. Another man may have punched Boyce, meaning it. I couldn't, for I'd seen worse inside the sewer lines. I started laughing and walked across the room, scooting cigarette butts under the vending machine. Boyce followed me.
Refrigerators are caves.
When your power goes out one day, you'll understand the end of the Pleistocene Epoch. Then he grabbed my arm and looked at my wife's mother, and asked our names, really. Some 150 writers from around the state entered the 1998 S.C. Fiction Project, sponsored by The Post and Courier and the S.C. Arts Commission. This year's 12 winners include one from the Lowcountry, Charlie Geer of McClellanville. 99 Click here to send feedback.