Once in a while, a story idea may come along that is unique, plausible, interesting, and which may be written as is; without needing to be edited again and again, in draft after draft of unfitting exasperation. Unfortunately, such an idea is the exception to the proverbial rule for me. This first story about playing sebastopal with cull potatoes happens to be just such an exception. Most of my ideas have to be grasped, bounced around and steeped for weeks or months in the stale moldering mush of my mind, in hopes that someday they will all be written down in some form of manuscript in blanca y negro.
