Write four lines of prose about: the stranger.
Tomorrow will be the last farmers market we'll have peaches and nectarines for this year, which is a little sad - both because they sell well and because they're delicious.
On the plus side, we're just getting into apple season. We'll have Galas again, our first McIntosh apples, and next week we'll likely have one or two more varieties.
Plus, you know, veggies and stuff.
It is the bountiful time of year.
It's disconcerting, this feeling that's been with me ever since I first set foot in this town. Leaves me with the impression that I'm at a distinct disadvantage, and I don't care for that at all.
Everyone knows who I am - I'm the new guy, the stranger, the come quick and point me out to your friends - but I don't know who any of these people are.
Can't say I'm enjoying this sensation in the least, and it's left my trigger finger feeling extra sensitive.