
Pulling, twisting, turning, ripping. Dust fills the workspace, and the smell of cat urine makes the air unbreathable. Pliers, a hammer, and a flat screwdriver break bones, tear tendons, and remove foam and cotton fill from the chair that I adopted from Wendy at work. I wipe sweat from my forehead and pry up sharp tacks hold the brown fabric flesh tight across the wood frame. The upholstery I pull from the chair is heavy with decades of dirt and oil and skin. It sits in a slump on the floor of my garage, lifeless. “That is disgusting!” My wife has returned home earlier than I expected. “It smells like cats. Did they have cats?” Yes. They definitely had cats. “I got it from a lady at work. It needs a lot of… work.” I have been breathing in the smell for forty-five minutes or an hour, and I don’t really notice it any more. “I will open a window.” She turns to leave, but I stop her, “It’s a Gunlocke.” I flip the chair on its side and lift it to show her the lower-case cursive “g” engraved on a metallic marker underneath the seat. The elegant mark catches her eye just like it caught mine. Continue reading “Do Not Neglect a Gunlocke- 800 words”





Richard N. Kauffman, “Columbine Lake, Evening”, ca. 1956


