Juicy Red Tomatoes, by Richard Terry

Somewhere in West Virginia, there sits the most gorgeous tomato patch you’ll ever see. They hang from wire and trellises, far richer than grapes, bursting through the leaves in sassy yellows and emerald greens and classic, venerable reds. You can almost smell their taste as you walk among them, their fullness wafting through the air like wine. If you get permission, you can pluck them off like apples and sink your teeth in, but be advised that this will spoil you forever. These are not the acidic, watery, industrial tomatoes of the grocery store, which seem to digest bits of your soul as you chew, and leave you feeling slimy and dull by the end of your meal. These tomatoes are a meal in themselves.

These tomatoes have left many an Italian grandmother nodding stoically for a good few minutes. They all give the same diffident shrug, the same, “Not bad.” Each then buys as many as she can fit in her bag, her hat, her bra, paying cash or even card and never haggling once about the price.

Locals say if you salt these tomatoes, you will die. An angel will come and fly you directly to heaven.

Until recently, this tomato patch was kept by one Tony Kawa, a Pole, the child of immigrants who came over in the 60s. He learned to be aggressively American from a young age, and before his untimely death, he ran an automobile shop out of his house and kept a personal fleet of motorcycles, which he worked on as much as possible. The real money was with the tomatoes, but Tony hated tending them. He worried gardening would make him look unmanly.

His son Chuck was the patch’s conscripted guardsman. Chuck had tried his hand at college and found it wasn’t for him. He moved back in with his dad and spent his days watching the patch and strumming his guitar. Chuck was always working on a song, an EP, an LP, some cross-genre thing, but he never seemed to finish. He talked about them quite well and at length, then, after a brief dark night of the soul, lost interest and started something new.

Sitting on a stool on the back porch, Chuck plucked away and gazed at the upstairs window of Mrs. Fattore’s place. He’d done this since his glandular youth, when Regina Fattore, Mrs. Fattore’s youngest, lived in the upstairs-back room and often studied herself in the mirror. Chuck burned like a candle as he watched her watch herself, posing like a painted goddess. But he ripped his gaze away when Regina crossed her arms over her head and lifted her shirt. He never watched her change, never saw her naked, not even close. He wasn’t a creep.

The Fattores were an Italian family of four generations, living and dying in the same Victorian structure which shared a backyard with Tony. Mrs. Fattore, Tony’s best customer and, perhaps, the closest thing he had to a friend, lived in the house behind Tony’s since the mid-60s. When Tony was four, she babysat him. Fattore, with her nut-brown curls, rosy-pale complexion, and deep brown eyes was Tony’s first crush, and as he grew, she became the bedrock on which he constructed his theory of the “ideal woman.” Their backyards faced each other, and in old age, Mrs. Fattore and Tony met regularly on her more hospitable back porch and shared a bottle of Gentleman Jack over a game of War. These meetings invariably ended with Tony proposing marriage to and being smoothly rejected by Mrs. Fattore, who let him keep the rest of the bottle and both the glasses. Tony was also famous for his collection of whisky glasses.

Only Chuck knew where the glasses really came from. He downed his glass with a grimace and stared at the yard. Still nobody, and the bedroom light wasn’t on either. It hadn’t been for a while.

Tony’s huge backyard might have, once, been intended for people. Through the jungle of vines and perfect, opalescent orbs, Chuck made out the outlines of deck chairs and tables. Perhaps a rusty lawnmower here or a druidic statue of St. Francis there. Towards the back, he saw a range of what, at first, looked like caution cones, but a closer look revealed a tribe of feral garden gnomes squatting on the border between Tony’s property and the Fattores.

Regina married after college and chose not to live in the generational house. The bedroom light was almost never on anymore, and even when it was, Chuck knew it wasn’t her. He missed her, missed the feeling of knowing she was there. Chuck felt he was protecting her, somehow, as he watched, and the hours burned down like matches. With her gone, the candle in his heart felt black and droopy, smoking in a pool of cooling wax.

One evening, as the sun simmered and the sky went smoky, the light flicked on. Chuck knew it was her. Somehow, he just knew. The candle in his heart blazed to life, searing his insides. He had to see her.

Chuck knew never to leave his post. He’d get the belt for even standing up. But if he could get his dad’s attention, ask permission… He stirred, hastily setting down his guitar with a plaintive thrum, almost knocking over the shotgun at his side. He bent around, looking for his dad, listening for the scream of machinery from the garage. He heard nothing.

“Dad?” he called cautiously. “Dad, I got something I wanted to ask about.” He waited, but still: no response. “Dad?” he threw out in a nagging tone. Still nothing.

Glancing around one last time, Chuck took a deep breath and peeled himself off the stool. His heart jumped on a trampoline in his chest, bumping off his ribs. His arms and legs felt tingly. He tiptoed around the tomatoes, the late day sun shining off their skin like little white eyes, watching him.

He ignored them and cleared his throat, then realized he was still holding his guitar in one hand. Stooping gently, he leaned it against the overgrown St. Francis and trundled on, shoulders arced and tense, waiting for his father’s bark.

In a blur, he found himself on the Fattores’ back porch. He mused on the crowded ashtray, on the Sacred Heart framed above it, fixed between the windows. His hair needed fixing. Chuck patted it down and realized he hadn’t rung the doorbell. He gave a little yelp, and was about to press it when the door swung open and a nearly-ageless Mrs. Fattore stepped into frame. She smiled when she saw him.

“Chuck-y,” she said, opening the door and throwing her arms around his neck. She wore a young woman’s perfume, and a lot of it, almost masking the stink of cigars. Mrs. Fattore always wore a bathrobe at home, monogrammed, red velvet, which she clasped at the neck when she had guests over. Chuck thought it made her look like a queen.

Her brown eyes sparkled as she looked him up and down. “How ya been? How ya doing? Come on in and tell me all about’cha.” She made way for him to enter.

A strong waft of Sunday gravy massaged Chuck’s nose as he entered the kitchen, orange tiled and bursting like a garden with family photos and the odd rosary or prayer card. Above the stove, a lipstick-stained picture of Dean Martin stood frozen in surprise, looking down at his plate as it overflowed with spaghetti. Beneath it, rattling, belching steam, sat a reliable old pot with rusty stains around the rim from Sunday gravies long gone. Chuck always felt hungry when he came over.

Mrs. Fattore noticed his stare. “Gotta have it ready for brunch.” Her face went wide again. “Hey, you should come this Sunday!”

“To Mass?” Chuck asked. He usually went when his dad did: Christmas, Easter, the important days.

“No,” Mrs. Fattore laughed, laying a hand on his arm. “I mean to brunch this Sunday. God, you look skinny. Someone’s gotta fatten you up.”

Chuck knew he’d gained weight recently. It was hard to exercise and keep watch at the same time. He knew Mrs. Fattore was just buttering him up, but it felt good. He wanted to go, but he wasn’t sure about guard duty, how to get out of it.

“And Regina’s here,” Mrs. Fattore added, comically smacking her forehead. “God, I don’t know how I forgot that. That should have been the first thing I said. Aw, she’d love to catch up with you. Have you kept up much since high school? You know…”

Mrs. Fattore kept talking, but Chuck floated up and joined the steam rolling around the kitchen at the mere mention of the name: Regina. She was here. He knew it. He knew he would see her again. Chuck wondered why she was here. Did she bring her husband? If she didn’t… A dark hope blistered in Chuck’s heart, and he pinched himself, feeling guilty. He should never wish her pain like that.

“You know,” Mrs. Fattore said, stopping to sip a glass of deep red wine, which she always kept near the stove. “I’ll call her down right now. You guys should chit-chat.”

Chuck started to object, but Mrs. Fattore had already blitzed past him, and he was forced to follow her to the base of the ornate staircase, gesticulating and pleading.

“Gina!” Mrs. Fattore shouted. “Hey, Regina! Come on down, girlie, you’ll never guess who’s here to see ya.”

If he could boil away into steam, floating out a vent and into the open air, into nothing, Chuck would have. But he also wanted nothing more than to stew there in that moment, dreading seeing Regina again but enraptured with hope that she might come out and stand at the top of the stairs, smiling when she saw him.

“Mom?” Chuck heard Regina faintly. His vision filled with gnats, and he braced himself on a baluster. Mrs. Fattore didn’t notice. She called after her daughter again.

“Mom, I just got here,” Regina protested. Her voice sounded stuffy. Chuck wondered if she was sick, or if that was just the distance. Or, a dark part of him hoped and hated himself for hoping, she’s been crying.

“So did he,” Mrs. Fattore said. “Come on, it’s respectful.”

“I can’t see people right now,” Regina said. “You know I can’t.”

“Chucky isn’t people,” Mrs. Fattore laughed. “He’s basically family. Come on, let’s have a reunion down here on the porch.”

“Mom…” A warning nestled in Regina’s voice. “I can’t see Chuck right now. Apologize to him for me.”

Something melted in Chuck’s chest. She’s apologizing to me… She really does care.

“He’s right here. Apologize yourself.”

Something thudded upstairs. “Chuck! Oh, I’m sorry you had to hear all this.” He heard a door open. Regina’s voice sounded clearer, but Chuck still couldn’t see her face. “I’m just… not feeling good right now, but I’ll try and catch up soon, okay?”

“He’s coming to brunch this Sunday,” Mrs. Fattore said.

“Oh, okay, we’ll catch up then, then. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Chuck said, the word floating out in a blissful sigh. “Sounds perfect.”

#

Chuck hovered through the next few minutes, everything seeming brighter and more colorful even as the room darkened, as the sun melted into the hills outside, staining the sky a lurid pink. He politely shook his head as Mrs. Fattore offered him coffee, pasta, wine, and got by on autopilot until she escorted him to the door, giving him a big hug and loud smooch before sending him off.

On his way back, he noticed the gate was already open. Chuck rifled through the filing cabinets of his memories. He closed the gate when he left; he always did. Fear grabbed him with a hook and ripped him back down to earth. He shivered as the color drained from the sky, leaving a starless black. He stepped inside and closed the gate, trying not to make a sound.

What to do? Chuck’s hands piled and re-piled over each other. At night, the backyard shone like a fallen angel with fluorescent beacons. Shielding his eyes, Chuck surveyed the patch. There were the feral gnomes―with one knocked over; he set it right. There were the smothered deck chairs, St. Francis―but no guitar. They’d taken his guitar. As Chuck noticed this, he also noticed a whole lot more green than red. Someone had picked the area almost clean.

#

It was best to go to him, Chuck decided. If he faced his punishment, he’d get the belt, but it’d be worse if he tried to hide it. He couldn’t hide it. How do you hide the lack of something? Besides, dad would notice the guitar was gone. That’s right, Chuck had lost the guitar; dad would see he suffered too. He would go easy on him.

As he approached the screen door, Chuck heard the familiar boom of political TV and a sudden string of expletives, fired like a shotgun blast overhead. Chuck ducked, shivered.

He never takes it easy on me, Chuck thought. Who am I kidding?

Chuck opened the door and stepped in. Tony knew it was him through some impossible sense relatives have.

“Boy,” Tony called, his voice an exaggerated Appalachian drawl. He held out a huge stein, branded for a local Catholic high school, half-empty.

Chuck snatched the stein and swept into the sweat-smelling, grease-painted kitchen. He topped his dad off and made him a sandwich―pickles, tomatoes, with mayo: dad’s favorite. He put it on a paper plate with a cigarillo on the side and served his dad, placing the beer in hand―perhaps a little too quickly, the septic-colored liquid sloshing dangerously to one side. Tony noticed this and squinted at his son.

“Clinton on his usual shit?” Chuck asked.

Tony whistled. “Bet your dupa.” He took a swig from his beer.

Dad almost never spoke Polish before the third beer. If he was that deep already, maybe he’d be too tired. Maybe he’d just cuss Chuck out. Chuck knew he deserved it anyway; he’d be okay with that. More than okay.

“Have to get him impeached,” Tony said, gnawing a knuckle, his face empty and warlike. His sandwich sat neglected on his lap. “They’re gonna fight us for every inch on it.”

“Oh,” Chuck said, not listening. He didn’t like the news guy’s tie. “Good.”

“What’d you say, boy?”

Chuck’s back prickled. “Sorry,” he said on instinct, flinching, but no pain came.

“Damn right, you’re sorry,” Tony said. Chuck heard metallic flicking and turned carefully to see dad already lighting the cigarillo. His drained stein sat on the couch beside him, next to a lonely sandwich. Tony blew smoke. “That’s the fate of our nation, right there. Should be sorry… Clinton should be sorry to that poor girl.”

This seemed as good a time as any. Scrunching up his eyes, Chuck began his confession: “Speaking of being sorry, dad, I, uh… Well, something happened with the―”

“That’s what I’m proud of you for, boy,” Tony said, his eyes bathed in white, reflecting the TV. “You always did good by the Fattores. Them’s right there some ideal ladies, and you always treated them like the queens they are. Even if you’re going nowhere with this music thing, you’ve got a good job now, and you’re treating the ladies good. That’s something.” Taking a long drag, Tony added, “Better than fucking Clinton!”

Tony laughed and coughed smoke. Chuck tried to laugh, but had to turn and rub his eyes, hiding tears. He had to tell dad now. Clearing his throat and blinking, Chuck started again.

A thunderous snore cut him off. Chuck opened his eyes, seeing Tony slumped back, smoking in his sleep, his skin cast in an embalmed pallor by the TV. Chuck waited for a second snore, and then a third, and gingerly, he started through the living room and towards the porch. He paused, then went back for the sandwich.

#

It was really hard pretending to be asleep, especially sitting on a stool with no back. That’s why Chuck decided to legitimately fall asleep, making sure to pick the ripest, juiciest, reddest tomatoes, and have them all ready in an old Walmart bag, which he placed on his lap before drifting off. It seemed unlikely, but he had to hope the thief would come back that night.

Chuck kept the shotgun at his side, leaning in the crook of his arm. He expected a shift or tug of the bag to wake him, but instead, he felt a tumbling as the tomatoes rolled and fell down his lap. In a breath, he had the shotgun up in one hand and pointed forward, before he could even see. He heard a little gasp. His eyes were blue-tinted and half-blind from the huge lights hanging over the patch. Chuck blinked, rubbed his eyes.

“Don’t move,” he said. “You know you gotta pay for those, ri―?”

Chuck stopped as he opened his eyes. Stretched tall with a shotgun barrel at her throat, Chuck saw a little girl wearing red boots and a green raincoat, a few shades lighter than the leaves and vines around her. She was albino, and her eyes, wide and pleading, shone red.

“Can we talk this over?” she asked. Her voice rang clear and without any accent. Her ice-colored hands shook as she held them beside her head. Chuck heard her breathing, feathery and desperate, though barely-parted lips.

“Don’t know what’s to talk over,” Chuck said. “This is the second time you stole now.”

“That’s right,” she gasped. “That’s exactly what I want to talk about: you got me, but what about your guitar, the other tomatoes? Come with me, and I’ll―”

“Now, hold on. You expect me to… follow you?”

“To get your stuff, yeah.” She nodded earnestly and met Chuck’s eyes. “And to meet my grandfather.”

Chuck was about to lower his gun, but now he steadied it. “Now, why would I―?”

“He sent me here,” she explained. “He loves your tomatoes.”

“Why don’t he pay for them, then?”

“I don’t think he knows they’re for sale. I didn’t. I didn’t even know this was stealing until, well…” She looked pointedly at the shotgun, her chin scrunching against the barrel as she did. She gave a little giggle.

Chuck squinted, doing his best impression of his dad. “I don’t think you understand, I’m of more than half a mind to turn your head to goo right now.”

“If you did that, though, you wouldn’t get the reward.” She seemed legitimately concerned, as if she didn’t want him to miss out. But she could have been lying; Chuck had seen movies before, and the “reward” in those sometimes meant death.

“Money?” Chuck asked after a moment.

The pale girl gave her best shrug. “Could be money, or something better.”

“What kind of better?”

She sighed. “Dunno. Want to find out?”

Chuck glanced over his shoulder, back at the white, mold-spackled colonial house looming like a ghastly cement block over the foliage. Dad was still sleeping, and probably would be for a while.

He met the pale girl’s eyes, lush and red as two ripe tomatoes. She gave a foxy smile, exposing a single, pointed canine in the corner of her mouth. A cold breeze wafted over the candle in Chuck’s heart. His fingers whitened around his shotgun.

“Sure,” Chuck said, poking her with the weapon. “You lead.”

#

Chuck had never been to this part of town before. He never knew it existed. Back behind the Catholic church―which always had weird red lights on at night―there stood a trenched, dead-end lane of old, frowning houses with totem poles of locks fixed into the doors and complex gates on wide front porches. The smell of dead leaves, raw wind, and peeling paint filled the air. The lights flickered. No one was out.

He kept his shotgun out and fixed on the pale girl, who led him to the deadest end of the lane. A down-right angry house squatted there, the front porch about to cave in any moment, the lawn overgrown with ivy and thorns, tangled with every kind of trash imaginable.

The pale girl cleared a path for him, kicking away cans and bottles, holding branches back. Chuck was slow to follow, but she waited patiently for him. She didn’t mind the gun anymore. If anything, she seemed to walk with a slight skip in her step.

As she fiddled with the many locks on the peeling blue door, Chuck noticed the welcome mat, saying something in a language he couldn’t read. Even if he could, the mat had been trod down almost to the point of illegibility.

“Get lots of people here?” Chuck asked the pale girl.

“Used to,” she grunted, wrestling with the last lock, her purple tongue sticking out.

Finally, with a rusty flick, the door wafted open. A reek of cat pee and beer swarmed Chuck’s nostrils. He burrowed his nose into his sleeve. The pale girl strode inside, hands folded behind her back. She turned.

“Coming?”

“What happened to them?” Chuck asked. His mouth felt sticky and dry. “Why don’t people come here no more?”

She smiled, shrugged. “Times change. Needs change. My grandfather can’t help everyone anymore, not the way he is now.”

“What?” Chuck asked eagerly, relieved by an explanation. “Used to be a doctor?”

“Of a kind,” the pale girl said. “A very personal practice.”

They stood in the foyer. Chuck didn’t remember choosing to follow. He didn’t remember anyone closing the door either. The pale girl faced a black curtain, a massive reproduction of Blackbeard’s flag blocking off the room before them. Through it, a kind of grumbled, wheezing snore could be heard, like an old boiler.

“Ah, he’s napping,” the pale girl said. But she moved forward and tugged the curtain.

“Don’t,” Chuck said; then, remembering himself: “That the best idea?”

The pale girl stopped. She stared at him, her eyes wide with recollection. “I almost forgot! He’ll offer you money, all the money you could ever want. But don’t take it. What you really want is the guitar.”

“The guitar? My―?”

But the girl didn’t elaborate. With the batlike screech of polyester, the curtain was swept aside, exposing a man so fat Chuck failed to recognize him as a person, when he first looked.

He sat on a caved-in couch, piled high with fast-food bags, old cigarettes, and a collection of beer bottles of various brands. A TV remote rested on his belly, completely bare as his torso was bare. Chuck couldn’t see him from the waist down, but didn’t want to imagine the sight. The fat man was hairy, his hair silvery, but not the girl’s albino white. This man had aged out of a golden blond, which had fled the top of his head entirely, exposing a pair of bony, curved horns. Fake horns, of course, like something you’d see in a movie. Chuck squinted. The makeup was uncanny, though.

The pale girl climbed the pile and whispered in her grandfather’s ear. He woke with a snort, his eyelids flashing open, exposing white-blue eyes. He looked at his granddaughter, then fixed his gaze on Chuck. Smoke seemed to actually fume out of his ears as his face curled into a scowl. Chuck couldn’t meet the man’s face. There was something futile about it, like an ant staring up at a boot.

“Howdy,” the fat man said through gritted teeth. “You can call me Dr. Fich.”

“H-hi,” Chuck said. He decided not to point the gun at him.

“Why are you here?” Dr. Fich asked.

“Your daughter.” Chuck cleared his throat. “Grand-daughter, stole my dad’s crop. Said you’d offer me remuneration for it. With interest.”

Chuck flinched as the horned man barked a laugh, wheezy and ragged as only a lifelong smoker’s can be. The laughter was uncomfortably long, and Chuck squeezed the handle of his shotgun the entire time. His fingertips tingled by the end of it.

“She said that, huh?” Dr. Fich seemed amused by his granddaughter, who gave a little curtsy. “Welp”―he slapped his belly with a tree-thick arm―“guess I have no choice.”

The pile rustled like a wave as he stood up―fortunately wearing huge gym shorts―and a mountain of money gushed out from beneath the trash. Chuck couldn’t guess how much, but it was definitely enough to go back to school. Maybe he could study music. Maybe he could… But forget studying! He’d never have to do guard duty again. He could move out, get a nice place and provide for himself, and Regina…

“No,” he said. “No, I shouldn’t take that.”

“Shouldn’t?” the horned man growled.

“I won’t,” Chuck declared, closing his eyes.

“Oh.” The horned man sat down with a thunderclap. “Then what will you take?”

“I want my guitar.”

Dr. Fich paused, staring. Chuck felt his skin peeling beneath his gaze. “I think you mean my guitar,” the horned man corrected.

“No.” Chuck surprised even himself with the command he injected into his voice. “You owe me a guitar.” He pointed at the pale girl. “She knows.”

Dr. Fich rolled his massive head around to glare at the pale girl, who flashed a victorious grin. Fich’s mouth curled into a cruel smile, and something like a purring, thunderous growl rose from the back of his throat, exploding into an insane, joyless laugh which died out as a gurgling sigh. Fich stared at the pale girl all the while, but as he sighed, he reached a hand behind his bulk and leaned down, his rancid, baggy eyes on a level with Chuck. His smile seemed impossibly wide. His horns looked so real.

“Come here,” Fich said, his hand still hidden. Chuck decided not to reply and stepped forward, holding out his hands. Fich coughed another laugh and rolled his eyes, and Chuck thought he heard Fich mutter, “Bitch…” as he glanced at the pale girl.

Fich dropped a guitar in Chuck’s hands. Not his own, but the most beautiful guitar he’d ever seen: a classic six-string, rosewood, with an inlay of pink roses potted along the body and growing in vines up the handle. It seemed to breathe, to sing as he strummed it. Chuck’s muscles ached at the sound. Goosebumps thrilled all over his body as he thought up a new idea for a song. Regina would love it. She would love him.

Chuck sighed despite himself, but he jumped back when he opened his eyes. Fich leaned even closer, his bulk dominating Chuck’s vision, his breath leaking like a sewer as he smiled.

“Go ahead,” the horned man said. “Play. Have your fun. But take this.” He opened his palm, and a tomato rolled around there, perfectly ripe, making Chuck’s mouth water just looking at it.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Your bill,” Dr. Fich said.

“For what?”

“Services rendered,” Fich spoke slowly, as if explaining something obvious. Chuck hated being talked to like that. He wrapped a knuckle against the guitar, and it echoed like eternity.

“You stole―”

“And I gave, too,” Fich said. “Wanna guess how much that guitar’s worth?”

“I don’t care, I―” Chuck broke off. He remembered why he came here. “I can’t take this anyways. My dad’ll want money.”

“Don’t worry about him. Not anymore.” Dr. Fich took Chuck’s hand and gave him the tomato. It was surprisingly heavy. “You’re paid back and then some. By the time this tomato rots, we’ll be square. In the black, as they say.”

#

Tony was dead when Chuck returned. He found his dad turned away from the St. Francis statue, his fingers laced in thick tomato vines, picked bare. Tony’s eyes were open, his pupils dilated not in horror, but as if looking at something he loved more than anything or anyone. But his mouth bent itself into an impossible snarl, and his teeth were stained red with tomato gore. Half-eaten tomatoes littered his lap, their blood soaking into his jeans.

Chuck shook his dad, shouted for him, looked around, but saw nothing and no one. The light was off in Regina’s room. The guitar groaned as it tumbled off his shoulder, as Chuck hugged his dad. The body was still warm. Chuck cradled his dad and called his name―Tony, his real name―trying and failing to close his eyes. Chuck realized he would never answer again. He would never yell again, or make him guard tomatoes, or hit him, or make him feel stupid, trapped. But he was proud of him. Chuck cried, and he laughed. And he thought of a song. Regina would love it.

Like the bards of old, Chuck kneeled beneath Regina’s window and played a song. His heart exploded and bathed his insides with fire, turning them to charcoal. His fingers flicked and popped across the strings like embers. Smoke and the steady growl of fire filled his voice. He sang from the heart, making up the words as he went.

The light came on in Regina’s room. The window opened, and she leaned out, black curls dancing down her shoulders, her skin rosy-pale, her lips full and pursed in an adorable bow as she studied him, confused, then smiled. Chuck sang louder. Regina’s eyes glowed, reflecting the bonfire in his heart, his oily dreams. He knew they would be together, that her marriage was nothing, that he would grow wealthy singing of her and only her, forever.

As Chuck sang, the tomato on the ground lost its shine and grew a spot of mold.

–

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Richard Terry teaches English at a small classical school in Virginia. He’s known among his students for wearing waistcoats and bringing homemade bread to school. When he’s not teaching, he enjoys reading Russian Fairy Tales, drinking various teas, and conducting experiments with pasta.

Story © 2024, Richard Terry

Original artwork © 2024, Brinnaria Schmiedicke