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Message-ID: <30960asstr$992905803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: Three Summer Sketches
Date: Mon, 18 Jun 2001 19:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Three Summer Sketches
by Mat Twassel
=====================




I.          Tree Service


The tree outside my bedroom window grew tall and thick as 
the years passed, and eventually the heavy boughs swayed 
over the roof of my house, brushing against the shingles, 
giving squirrels an easy leap onto that steep playground.  
On windy nights the rustle and scrape of twigs and 
foliage rubbed against the edge of my sleep, and during 
daylight the juicy green leaves of late June and early 
July sheltered my bedroom window from all but the bravest 
beams of sunlight.  Upon looking out each morning, I 
observed that the thick clusters of leaves also covered 
the upstairs window of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, my neighbors. 
Actually it was the Jones' little daughter, Megan, who 
had that room opposite mine.  She'd been four when they 
moved in, but that was ten years ago.  Make it eleven.

I didn't mind the rustling, the dappling, the nearly 
constant shade, but in the spring my wife Melissa had  
planted bushes, big soft springy bushes, and now she 
decided that the tree's thick canopy was blocking out too 
much valuable sunlight.  "Those babies need to be 
thinned," Melissa said.  "Call a tree service."

I put it off.  But a few weeks later we were out jogging 
in the neighborhood--actually I jog, Melissa rides her 
bike--and we passed by a big house getting some extensive 
landscaping done.  "Can you guys prune trees?" Melissa 
asked the men who were doing the job.

"Sure, lady," said one of the landscapers, a chubby 
Mexican man with a big belly and a tattered yellow tee 
shirt.  "Pepe, he do good tree work, right Pepe?" His 
partner, Pepe presumably, who was much smaller and 
thinner, scratched his head.

"Good.  You guys come over.  Give us an estimate."

Noon the next day, Carlo, who was wearing the same tee 
shirt as the day before, and little Pepe came over in 
their rust-colored pickup.  "These limbs are blocking out 
all my sun," Melissa explained.  She pointed to the 
offending branches.  "See, my bushes don't get enough 
light.  I need them trimmed."  She pointed at the bushes.

"Right," Carlo agreed.  "We take out the bushes.  No 
problem."

"Not the bushes," Melissa said. "The branches.  The 
bushes stay."

"Right," Carlo agreed.  "The bushes."

"No, the trees," Melissa said, gesturing.  "That limb and 
that one. The ones leaning over the house.  And those two 
at the ends.  Chop them off. Chop them off and take them 
away. Can you do it?  How much?"



"Do you think they understood?" Melissa asked me later.

"I'm not sure I understood," I confessed.  "But in any 
event two hundred seems like a good price."

"I don't know," Melissa said.  "I'm having second 
thoughts."

"I'm sure it will work out fine," I said.

"Well, it's going to be up to you to oversee it.  My tour 
starts tonight."



At noon the next day Pepe and Carlo pulled up in their 
old truck.  "You have a ladder?" Carlo asked.  I helped 
Pepe lug the 36 foot aluminum ladder from the garage.

"You have a saw?" Carlos said.  

"In the garage," I answered.

"Also Pepe?"

"Pepe?" I said, looking around.

"Pepsi Cola," he said.  "With ice.  It's very hot."

By the time I came out with two cans of Coke and a couple 
of tall glasses filled with ice, Pepe and Carlo had the 
ladder fully extended and leaning up against the tree.  
Pepe was climbing.  Carlo was holding the ladder.  "Thank 
you," he said when he saw me with the drinks, and he let 
go of the ladder.  Anxiously I looked up.  Pepe wasn't on 
the ladder, he was up in the tree, sawing.  "Like monkey, 
no?" Carlo said.  He poured one of the Cokes into one of the 
glasses. We could hear the sharp crack of ice and then 
the fizz.  "Is good," Carlo said, and he smiled.

"Right," I said.  "Let me know if you need anything."  I 
went into the house.

 From time to time I could hear Pepe, or what I took to be 
Pepe, scrabbling about on the roof. He didn't make much 
more noise than a squirrel. I went up to the bedroom and 
looked out the window to check the progress.  Sure enough 
progress had been made.  The heavy curtain of leaves 
which usually blocked my view was no longer there.  I 
could see through the airy space all the way to my 
neighbor's house, to the second floor window.  I could 
see right through my neighbor's window, right to little 
Megan's bed.  I could see little Megan herself, lying on 
the bed. Only she wasn't so little anymore.  She also 
wasn't wearing any clothes.  She was masturbating.  She 
had one hand between her legs and another pinching the 
nipple of her right breast.  Her breasts were not big, 
but her nipples were clearly erect.  A pair of fingers 
from one of her hands worked syncopated figure-eights 
across the crux of her sex while her coltish legs wobbled 
back and forth.  With the thumb and forefigner of her 
other hand, she tweaked and twisted the nipple, then 
started moving her hand slowly down the flat of her belly 
and up the gentle swell of her pudgy mons. Her hand 
rested for a moment upon the curls of wispy pussy fur 
then drifted lower while at the same time her abdomen 
lifted up. Slowly her legs spread wide. Several fingers 
pushed fully inside the nimble hole of her pale pink sex. 
More fingers busked the clit.  Megan's body began to 
tremble and buck.

Suddenly I got the sense of something swaying, something 
swooping.  A shadow plunged past my window. It was more 
than a shadow--the crash of glass told me that.  I looked 
down.  The butt end of the bough had poked through the 
Jones' first floor window.  The branch looked a little 
like an upended Christmas tree bejeweled with shards of 
glass glinting in fresh sunlight.  I looked lower.  
There, right where Melissa's nice soft bush should have 
been, was Pepe, limp as a dropped rag doll.

I looked across again.  Megan was at her window.  She had 
been looking down, too, but now her eyes moved up, from 
the thick thrust of my cock straight into my eyes.  She 
smiled shyly and then she tasted her fingers.



II.         Dizzy


Manny and Carla have been married for almost nine 
months.  Manny works at the gear factory during the 
days and fools around with his horn at nights while 
Carla does the late shift at the Kit-Kat. Carla 
usually gets home by three or three-thirty, home 
being a neat and tidy little third floor apartment 
above the bakery on 11th Street, and most nights 
they have little energy left for each other.  Most 
mornings Manny wakes up alone in bed; Carla has 
spent the night on the couch in the living room so 
as not to disturb him.

"It's time for us to have a baby," Carla tells 
Manny one morning before he leaves for work.  
"Tonight would be a good night for it.  My mother 
says hot weather makes for good babies.  Besides, 
it's time."

"What about money?" Manny asks.  "What about the 
Kit-Kat?"

"I've quit the Kit-Kat.  I don't need that stuff. 
Don't forget your lunch."

Manny's blue work shirt is soaked with sweat before 
the bus makes five stops. Maybe it is the heat. Or 
maybe he is nervous about the baby.  He shakes his 
head and sweat flies from his eyebrows.  "I'm 
sorry," he says to the lady in the seat next to 
him.  "It's so hot.  I'm a little dizzy."  The lady 
nods. "I'm going to have a baby.  I mean we are.  I 
mean me and my wife. Tonight.  I mean we're ... 
We're going to ..." Manny blushes. The lady smiles.

At work he feels weak.  On the morning break he 
talks to his buddy, Big Carl, who works the early 
swing and is about to leave. 

"What's the matter?" Big Carl says.  "Heat got 
you?"

"I can't concentrate," Manny answers.  "Carla 
thinks it's time for us to have a baby."

"Hey, great man," Big Carl says.  He slaps Manny on 
the back.  "How come you don't look excited about 
it?"

"I am excited.  I don't know.  I'm just a little 
nervous is all."

"Well, here's what you do," Big Carl says.  "You 
put some really hot jazz on the phonograph.  
Something by Miles or Dizzy.  Something really cool 
and staunch, you know?  Then a little dancing. A 
little hugging.  And the next think you know--
whammo!"

"Whammo?" Manny says.

"Yeah, whammo."  Big Carl slaps Manny on the back 
again.

As the morning wears on, Manny thinks more and more 
about having a baby, and the more he thinks about 
it, the more he likes the idea. Maybe the kid can 
sleep in a dresser drawer like in the cartoons. 
Man, it will be good to hold Carla in his arms 
again. And a baby might make the sex extra special. 
Not that the sex has been anything less than 
spectacular.  When it happens.  But lately, with 
this working at the Kit-Kat, it hasn't been 
happening too often. But now that's over. Thank 
goodness. And a baby! By lunchtime he can't wait.  
"Not feeling well," he tells the foreman. "I think 
I'm going to have to go home."

"You do look a little peaked," the foreman says.  
"Take off."

Manny picks up his lunch box,  punches out, and 
catches the bus.

Yup, he thinks as he rides down the avenue.  Jazz 
would be just the thing. There's that new Dizzy 
Gillespie that they saw in the window of Dix's the 
other day. Carla has a thing for Gillespie. A 
present for her. Sort of a way to kick things off.  
Man, it would be really good.  Really special. 
Dizzy blowing so hot and cool. The sexy riffs, long 
and stuttery and then smooth and sleek, and those 
subtle rhythmic shifts. The bus rolls along. Manny 
lets his mind drift.  His thoughts of Dizzy's jazz 
mix with memories of the sweet way Carla gave 
herself up in sex back in the old days before she'd 
begun at the Kit-Kat--her coos and cries, her 
supple body bending to his touch, the slight shifts 
in her rhythms as orgasm approached, and then the 
amazing clutch of her cunt when she came. Manny 
closes his eyes and sighs.  Yup, jazz is perfect 
music for fucking, especially hot summertime 
fucking.  He replays the pictures in his mind over 
and over, each time adding a few details.  The 
evening warm and sultry.  The window open, but nary 
a breeze to catch the lace curtains.  The new 
Gillespie on the old phonograph, silver needle 
riding the groove, the black LP swinging round and 
round the platter.  He can almost taste Carla's 
smooth skin; he can almost feel the sweet suction 
of her slippery kisses.  Oh, the heat of her, the 
little wiggle and lift of her body, the easy way 
she moves when he's in her--oh, the gleam of her 
eyes, the sway of her hair, the pull and pulse of 
her hot slick center.  Oh man! Fucking so sweet and 
hot and slow! Manny's erection presses against his 
pants. Man oh man oh man. The girl across the aisle 
has noticed.  She is grinning at him and Manny 
blushes but his hard-on won't subside.  The bus 
rolls on, and the girl's big eyes caress the bulge. 
Manny sets his lunchbox upon his lap.

She's too young to know what this is all about, 
Manny says to himself.  She's just a kid, probably 
still in high school.  But a glance at the girl's 
eyes tell Manny that she does know.  Maybe she and 
her boyfriend have an apartment of their own.  
Maybe they play Gillespie these hot summer nights, 
doing it to that sleek and slippery jazz, doing it 
and doing it until the girl's cunt hiccups with the 
sweet tremors of climax, and the boy's cock coughs 
up its flood of white hot jizz, and the record, 
long done, just circles there on the turntable, 
spinning round and round, making that soft, dark, 
not quite scratchy wave sound, like a distant 
seashore, or the beating of lovers' hearts.

"Um, would you like a sandwich?" Manny says.  He 
opens his lunchbox."

"No, thank you," the girl says.

"It's fresh," Manny says.  "Salami and cheese. I 
ain't taken a bite out of it or anything."

"No, that's okay," says the girl.

"How about an apple, then?  A red one.  They're 
really good.  Juicy."

"Okay," the girl says. "An apple would be fine."

"Okay," Manny says.  He takes the apple out.  The 
old lunchbox presses against the knob of his 
erection. "Um," he says.  He holds the apple out.  
"Um, here."

The girl gets up and crosses the aisle. Manny can't 
help but see the shapely sway of her small 
breasts beneath her summer blouse as she takes the 
apple from his hands.

"Thanks," the girl says, and she returns to her 
seat. She smiles at him and takes a bite.  Such a 
nice smile. Small white teeth. Gleaming eyes. A 
quick pink tongue. A fine spray of saliva spurts as 
she eats. And those soft firm apple-sized breasts 
beneath her blouse, pale pink nipples, probably-- 
soft little buttons to lick and bite, like Carla's, 
stiffening up into ... Manny stops himself.

"Good, isn't it?" Manny says.

The girl nods. Her eyes never leave Manny's as she 
eats the apple.

No, Manny says to himself.  It's Carla he should 
have in his head.  But he can't keep from picturing 
the girl and boy lying there,  content, sticky, 
hot, flushed--the girl's cunt full of the boy's 
semen, overflowing with it.  Me and Carla, Manny 
insists, but it's that amorphous boy his mind gives 
him, and it's the girl across the aisle who's 
bending over his body, her little breasts swaying, 
her mouth breathing life into that sluggish cock 
until it's stiff and silky, thickened with fresh 
lust, and they're back to fucking again, slow hot 
summertime fucking, and she's coming, coming so 
hard she almost can't stand it. Manny's cock 
throbs. For a moment the world stops.  

The bus stops, too, and the girl gets off, tossing 
the apple core into the gutter.  Manny follows her 
with his eyes as the bus pulls out.  She's sweet, 
that girl, tight little ass, almost boyish, swaying 
slightly as she steps, but hey, not as sweet as 
Carla. Carla and me--about to make a baby!

At 11th, more excited than ever, Manny exits the 
bus, but instead of hurrying up to his apartment, 
he crosses the street to Dix's Records & Sheet 
Music.  "The new Gillespie," he tells the clerk.

"It's selling well," the fellow says as he gets it 
down.  "Supposed to be really hot. Plenty of swell 
tunes. But I'm an Armstrong man myself."

"Yeah, well," Manny says, handing over his money.  
"My wife likes Dizzy. No need for a sack."

Lunchbox in one hand, record jacket in the other, 
Manny steps onto the sidewalk. Sunbeams glint 
upward.  Manny raises his eyes to the third floor 
window.  Sure enough it's open wide.  Inside lace 
curtains drop through deep shadows.  Nary a breeze 
to ruffle them. Manny smiles and crosses the 
street.

On the opposite side he steps between a two-tone 
Dodge and Big Carl's sea green Desoto. The white 
stocking dangling from the Desoto's rearview mirror 
catches the corner of Manny's eye.  The lunchbox 
quivers against his thigh. His grip tightens on the 
record jacket.  Man oh man, he says to himself as 
he looks up at the third floor window.

He pricks his ears and cocks his head and breathes 
deep.  "Pretty Baby" is just ending. "Heartbreak 
Boogie" is about to begin.  Inside Carla is 
moaning.  "Don't stop! Don't stop!" she cries.  
Manny can hear it as if she's right next to him, 
right underneath him. "Oh, baby, don't stop, don't 
ever stop.  It's so good, so good, so oh oh good."  
Manny can hear the couch squeak and the skin slap. 
Then the hard gasp, the muffled grunt.  The cave 
deep silence. 

The lace curtains flutter. Just a lazy little 
tremor of movement.  Manny takes a step back into 
the street. The ice truck strikes him squarely, 
and he flies down 11th Street, landing head first. 
He bounces twice then skids along on crushed bones 
and a broken heart. The lunchbox lid is snapped clean 
off, but the Gillespie record survives without a 
scratch.  Up in that third floor window, the lace 
curtains hang limp.



III.          DNA


The air conditioner in the apartment conked out a 
little after eleven.

"Can you fix it?" Cindy asked Don.  "It's just so 
hot--I don't think I can sleep in this."

"We'll buy a new one tomorrow," Don said. 

"Yeah, but what about tonight?"

"Tonight we suffer," Don said, and he nestled up 
against Cindy.  "Anyway, what's wrong with a little 
well-earned sweat?"  He swiveled his mid-section 
against Cindy's.  "Man, you are hot."

"Too hot," said Cindy, pushing him away.

"You could have a bath after," Don said. "We could 
both have a bath."

"Right," Cindy replied, "but we aren't going to be 
able to sleep in the bathtub, are we?"

"Maybe the whats-er-names down the hall will 
let us use their couch?"

"Get real," Cindy said.  "We hardly know them."

"This could be a good time to ..."

"I don't think so," Cindy said.  "I know you think 
she has nice boobs and all."

"No nicer than yours."

"No nicer?"

"Not nearly as nice."

"That's better, honey," Cindy said.

"And her ass isn't near as good, either."

"What do you know about her ass?"

"Well, I ... I just noticed that it wasn't as ... 
as nice as yours."

"You noticed, eh?"

"Yup, I noticed."

"We're still not knocking at their door at 
almost midnight to ask if we can sleep on their 
couch because our air conditioner broke."

"Okay, then what do we do? Stand in front of the 
refrigerator all night?"

"You tell me," Cindy said.

"We could take off some of our clothing," Don 
suggested.  "And maybe apply a few ice cubes."

"Ice cubes?"

"Just a few. Just to the hot spots."

"Oh, and where might those be?"

"I'd have to do some experimenting.  Some 
research."

"Maybe some other time," Cindy said.  "I'm going 
out for a walk.  It's just too stuffy in here.  Too 
hot and stuffy. Wanna come?"

They walked around the block.  Steamy moonlight 
seared the trees.

"Awfully muggy out here," Cindy said.  "But it's 
better to be moving. But not too much better. 
Besides, we can't walk all night."

"You were the one who wanted to walk."

"It was just a temporary measure."

"So what do we do now?" 

"We drive," Cindy said.  "We drive fast with the 
windows open and the air conditioner on full 
blast."

The streets were empty.  They made most of the 
lights.  Tires hisses around dark curves.  They 
rattled across the bridge and drove a few miles 
into the country. "We can't just drive all night," 
Don said.  He turned around and headed home.

"How about a hotel?" Cindy suggested.

They tried the Park East.

"You have reservations?" the clerk asked.

"Ah, no," Don said.  "Our air conditioner broke."

"I'm sorry," the clerk said.  "The thing is, we're 
full.  Completely booked.  All these summer 
festivals and conventions."

"You wouldn't happen to know of someplace else?" 
Don said.

"'Fraid not," the clerk answered.  "I believe every 
room in the city is taken.  There might be 
someplace out by the airport--the Kozy Winks or 
someplace like that--but none of the big places, I 
can guarantee you that."

"So what are we going to do?" Cindy said when they 
were back in the car.  "Fry?"

"We'll go to my office," Don said.  "There's a 
couch in the break room."

"How big a couch?"

"You can have the couch," Don said.  "I'll sleep on 
the floor or something."

The plant was two miles west of city. Don used his 
key card, and the parking lot gate slid open.  The 
lot was empty.

"Not too many people working after midnight," Cindy 
said.  "Where's the dedication?"

They entered the building.

"Nicer inside," Cindy said.  "It's almost chilly.  
I should have brought a sweater. Which office is 
yours?"

"None of them," Don said.  He rubbed Cindy's arms. 
"Peons don't get offices.  My cubby is at the back 
of the production floor with all the other dinks."

"You call it a cubby," Cindy said.  "That's so 
cute."

"What should I call it?"

"I don't know... cube?  But I like cubby.  It's 
sort of a cute word.  Like pee pee.  Or poo poo.  I 
bet you have a cute little cubby.  I know you have 
a nice little dink." She touched the front of  his 
trousers.  "Mm, not so little," she said, rubbing.

"How come you're suddenly so playful?" Don asked.

"I don't know," Cindy said. "Maybe being all alone 
in a deserted building.  It makes me feel a little 
naughty."

"Naughty?"

"Don't worry--I'm not going to pee pee on the 
carpet."  She squeezed Don's penis through his 
pants.

"But you think I'm a dink for not having my own 
office.  For just having a little cubby."

"You're not a dink," Cindy said, letting go of his 
penis and cuddling up against him. "You're my guy.  
My special guy.  Someday you'll have an office of 
your own."

"You think so?"

"Sure.  What's your boss got that you don't?"

"An office?" Don said.

"So let's check it out.  Is this the door?"

"No, that's the conference room.  Seesting's office 
is just down there. But maybe we shouldn't."

"Why not?" Cindy said.  "Guard dogs in there?"  She 
had already stepped to the door and turned the 
knob.  It opened.

"Not much security," Cindy said as she walked into 
the office and switched on the light. "We could 
practically walk off with the place."

"Well," said Don, "it's not as if we've got any top 
secret stuff stored in here."

"You never know," Cindy said.  "Wow--cool desk.  
Why would anyone need a desk this big?  I really 
like this dark wood.  What kind of wood do you 
think it is?"

"Expensive wood," Don said.

Cindy sat up on the desk. "It's really smooth and 
glossy.  You could almost skate on it."

Don chuckled.  Cindy slipped off her shoes and 
stood up on the desk.

"Look, I'm skating," she said.

"Careful," Don said.

"Come up here and skate.  It's fun."

"You're going to break something."

"There's nothing to break.  Come up here."

"No."

"Okay, then catch me."  She slid off the end of the 
desk into Don's arms.

"Whee," that was fun.  "Kiss me."

"How come you're acting so ... "

"Kiss me," Cindy said.

They kissed.  Lightly at first, but soon Cindy's 
kisses grew hungry.

"Mm," Cindy said when Don had put her down.  "That 
was nice.  I'm going to skate on the desk again.  
It was so fun.  Come on."

"No," Don said.  "Please.  You almost knocked over 
the picture last time."

"Did not," Cindy said.  She was sitting on the 
front of the desk, dangling her legs over. She 
picked up the picture, which was the only thing on 
the desk.

"Wow," Cindy said.  "She's really pretty.  Your 
boss sure has a pretty wife.  You think he ever 
boinks her on this desk?"

"It's not his wife," Don said.  "It's his 
daughter."

"Oh," Cindy said. "I don't suppose he boinks his 
own daughter.  How about his secretary?"

"Miss Fitzhugh?  Ha! She's eighty-seven."

"You never know," Cindy said.  "When I'm eighty-
seven you sure as hell better be boinking me. So, 
you think no one's ever been boinked on this desk?"

"What's all this about boinking?" Don said.

"Boink, boink, boink," Cindy said.  "Come on, let's 
boink.  Boink me."

"What I ought to do is spank you."

"Okay, spank me.  Spank me and then boink me.  I 
really feel like being boinked.  Don't you want to 
boink me?"

"I do want to boink you.  It's just ..."

"You'd rather boink the boss' daughter?"

"No, I just think..."

"That's your problem, you think too much." Cindy 
slipped her jersey over her head and tossed it to 
Don.  "Look at my titties.  Aren't they cute and 
boinkable?"

"They're ..."

"Mm," Cindy said.  She was touching her nipples 
lightly. Flicking the tips. Running her fingernails 
around and around. "See how fat they're getting?" 
She pinched lightly.  "God, I'm feeling so hot.  I 
can feel it in my clit when I do this.  I feel so 
rubby down there. Want to see?"

"I ..."

Cindy was already shucking her shorts.  Slipping 
her panties down.  "God, I feel so wet, so hot and 
wet."  She put a finger in.  "See," she said.  
"Sticky.  My little cubby is all wet and sticky 
inside."  She fed a taste to Don.

"Look," she said, nodding to the picture of 
Seesting's daughter.  "It looks like she's looking 
at me.  Like she's looking at my pussy.  Do you 
think she likes the way my pussy looks? Do you 
think she'd like to  lick it?"

"I think I'd like to lick it," Don said.

"Don't you have a picture of me in your cubby?" 
Cindy asked, stroking herself, slow curving strokes 
from asshole to clit and back.  "A picture of my 
cubby in your cubby, all hot and wet and open?"

"Yes," said Don.  "Hot and wet and open."  He 
peeled back the plump little lips.  A droplet of 
sex juice welled up.

"Lick," Cindy said. "Lick me hard and quick and 
long.  I need your tongue in me now.  Deep deep in 
my pussy cunt. I need it so bad. Your tongue and 
then your cock and then your cum.  Come on," she 
said, lying back on the desk and spreading her legs 
as wide as they would go.  "Come on up here and do 
it."

"That was so good," Cindy said when they were done.  
"Wasn't it good?"

"Yes," Don agreed.  They were stretched out on the 
desk.  "Good."

"You did that so good that you should be boss here. 
Remind me to put in a good word for you."

Don chucked.

Cindy squeezed his penis.

"No drops left," she said.  "All out.  But look, 
there's some of our drool on the desk."  She 
smeared it around with her fingertip."

"Don't," Don said.  "Maybe we should mop it up."

"Why?" Cindy asked playfully.  "Do you think it 
will leave a stain?  Do you think it will eat into 
this expensive wood?  Do you think they might be 
able to identify us from the DNA?"

Cindy laughed, but she used her panties to mop up 
the dribbles, and then she and Don dressed and 
drove home and took a bath together and played with 
a few ice cubes and fells asleep on their own bed 
with their arms around each other.

As it turned out, the DNA wasn't needed; the video 
surveillance camera in Seesting's office was 
enough.


=====================
Three Summer Sketches
by Mat Twassel


Comments welcome.  Write to mmtwassel@aol.com

Tell me which of these sketches you liked the best.
Maybe I'll write a sequel to whichever one "wins."

If you enjoyed these stories, you may wish to
visit my website at:  

http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
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