baby carrots

baby carrots CLAY MCLEOD CHAPMAN Emma brought home a bad batch of baby carrots. You could tell just by looking in the bag. Gnarled things, really. Like fat fingers, their pudgy knuckles pressing against the clear plastic. I had volunteered to help her unpack the groceries, as a peace offering, finding them nestled in between the OJ and eggs. Over a dozen whittled digits pointed up at me—J’accuse! I grabbed the bag and tossed it in the air, feeling those baby carrots slap and settle into my palm. Think these…

Fiction Friday: Nail on the Head

Nail on the Head CLAY MCLEOD CHAPMAN Where did the hammer come from? Good question. It was in my house. Therefore it was my hammer, I guess. Mine now, at least. I must’ve gotten it from somewhere. The hardware store, sure, even though I have zero recollection of ever buying it. It wasn’t my wife’s. People simply pick up tools over time, you know? A hammer here, a screwdriver there… After a few years, somewhere in your twenties, your thirties, you suddenly discover you have amassed yourself a complete toolset…