Gregory Webb

I was standing in the bed of a short story in itself, a 1993 model Ford Ranger, robin’s egg blue with a stripe of silver down the side; my father had refused to buy the ‘67 Chevey Camaro from the previous owners of the house. I was armed. Armed with a real stiff-rope lasso and a little practice. I had the lasso out because we were after our escaped donkey, Shrek. I wasn’t especially talented with