A cool, overcast day. Denny sat under the weeping willow in the middle of Ploughman’s Field, eyes closed, listening to the whispers.
They started seven years ago; same day, same place he buried his brother’s favorite toy – a tiny ’69 Corvette Stingray, black with yellow and orange stripes running down the hood.
His brother’s death was violent, unexpected. Trying to process, impossible. His parents offered no help so on an especially difficult day, he snatched the toy and ran, ending up under this tree.
Now whenever he needed, he’d come and listen to whatever his beloved brother had to say.
The Weekday One Hundred 