Triangular Cider

by Alan Murphy

The apples had grown queer that season, more triangular than round and of otherworldly hue. Ox Murphy blamed the rain, bellyaching that it had fallen at a funny angle. Should the cider taste triangular or otherworldly, autumn would be lean in the orchard. Wee Nathaniel dragged the season's inaugural keg into the ramshackle pantry, and dutifully suspended a dampened cedar ladle approximately three and a half inches from his father's jaw.

Ox caressed the ladle with pursed lips, suctioning a microscopic bead of auburn moonshine onto his palate. His reddened jowls grew and shr