Carrot Ranch Literary Community

Home » Rodeo » The TUFFest Ride

The TUFFest Ride

The following stories are the result of the 2018 TUFFest Ride — a process to free-write a story, revise it through a series of reductions and build it back up into a revised draft. It’s a pure writing process, not editing. That comes later. Five writers were selected out of 118 entries to take a month-long challenge: Bill Engleson (First Place), Kay Kingsley ( Second Place), Pete Fanning (Third Place), Ritu Bhathal (Honorable Mention), and Liz Husebye Hartman (Honorable Mention). Bill, Kay, and Pete were selected to complete second drafts after the TUFF process. All totaled, five writers explored, discovered and pushed through their creative writing process. Note that this contest emphasized writing, not editing.

***BILL ENGLESON, FIRST PLACE***

FREE-WRITE: An Overwhelming Sense of Suffocation at Fifteen

Once upon a time, I slept in my parent’s bed, left alone, sleeping in their bed, orphaned by two weeks of union-won summer vacation, the first time I recall, a test of age, of maturity, a test of me.

“He’ll manage, for Chrissake! He’s fifteen. Old Hawkins will look in. Whip up the odd meal. Make sure he’s not starvin’ to death.”

I had never really been tested, trusted, before.

Never.

And then, days in, Monroe.

Dead!

Dead.

I am inconsolable.

Night.

August 6.

Monday.

Midnight.

Crawling out the window, shimmying down the dying grapevine, the still sticky night air, heat lingering, clinging, slapping skin, hop, skip, tripping through the neighbours yard, the gravel driveway, a stretch of asphalt, loping along the tracks south to town, sliding down the coal tailings, slipping on the dead, dark-damp Pavilion lawn, the ancestral miners soccer pitch, tiptoeing into the river, that slight stream, the wet slippery stones, ankle deep, bent under drooping boughs, half-moon light, under the bridge, a sludge of mud flats, scrap iron scarring the low tide, the soft sea-slop sucking me down into a slurping mire of mud.

My hands swarm into the bog, fingers clutch the spillage, rocks, busted shells, artifacts of remorse, shards of metal, the foul quagmire of industrial rejects, a boneyard of rotting rubber.

The humdrum august sun rises over the island beyond. I am exposed, naked, a runt in long shadows. Dawn traffic hammers into the day. Each step in the muck draws me down deeper. Knees! Thighs. I am swallowed.

The gasoline air revives me, the bridge jamboree fuel fires me alive.

I retrace my descent, the slurry releases me back to the river’s mouth, akimbo scrambling along the stones, stumbling into pools, cleansing, breathing.

My recoil outruns the revealing sun.

###

99-WORD ORIGINAL POV: An Overwhelming Sense of Suffocation at Fifteen

Two-weeks.

Alone.

Monroe abruptly expires.

I am inconsolable,

Midnight gremlins call.

Crawling, shimmying, clinging, slapping, tripping, tracking south, sliding, coal tailings, slipping, dark-damp Pavilion lawn, the river, slippery stones, bent under drooping boughs, half-moon light, bridge, sludge, soft sea-slop, a slurping mire of mud.

Hands swarming the bog, fingers clutching rocks, busted shells, shards, a boneyard of rotting rubber.

Exposed, starkers, a runt in long shadows.

Traffic hammering.

Muck drawing me down.

Knees! Thighs.

I am swallowed.

Gasoline air revives me, the bridge jamboree fuel fires.

The slurry releases, scrambling stones, stumbling, pools, cleansing, breathing.

Outrunning the revealing sun.

###

99-WORD DIFFERENT POV: An Overwhelming Sense of Suffocation at Fifteen

It doesn’t matter to me now. All that anger, the self doubt, the humiliation.

I’m passed that now.

I see you, boy.

And yes, I see me.

You couldn’t possibly be as miserable as I was?

Your small-town light barely flickers this night.

I see you.

Creeping out the window.

A pale-skinned bare-naked boy.

Where are you going?

Along the tracks, through the bush, into the river,
frolicking,
drowning in the sludge of your trashy estuary.

Machismo mountebank!

This is how you grieve for me?

How outrageous you are?

How selfish?

Grieve for yourself, young fool.

Never for me!

###

59-WORD + ALTERNATE POV NUGGET: An Overwhelming Sense of Suffocation at Fifteen

We are both fifteen.

You…seeking you…but blessed. Knowing where you are. In one place. Life, a constant.

And I, dangling on the dreary edge of a cultural fault: a mother… mislaid, her paramours…mine.

No orphan sob stories from me, brother.

I am swallowed in my own time.

You remain.

I am gone, yet ever exhumed?

Think well of me.

###

9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION

Her spectre blazes in my brain, dangling in time. [wonder]

Mudslide! Low Tide!! Suicide! I have done your will. [resignation]

###

SECOND DRAFT: An Overwhelming Sense of Suffocation at Fifteen

Once…once upon a time, I slept in my parent’s bed, left alone, sleeping in their bed, orphaned by two weeks of union-won summer vacation, the first time I recall, a test of age, of maturity, a test of me.

“He’ll manage, for Chrissake! He’s fifteen. Old Hawkins will look in. Whip up the odd meal. Make sure he’s not starvin’ to death.”
I had never really been tested, trusted, before.

Never.

And then, days in, Monroe.

Dead!

Dead.

I am inconsolable.

I do not understand. Death is not only a mystery, it is unknown to me.

A song swims into my head.

Seventy-eight repetitions.

Endless!

“There is a river called the river of no return. Sometimes its peaceful…”

And I weep, am engulfed by a ferocious rush of sudden bewildering loss.

My loss.

Hers!

The night crushes in.

August 6.

Monday.

Midnight.

There is no sleep to be had.

“…sometimes its peaceful and sometimes wild and free.”

The stifling summer heat, the lifeless air hanging like dead skin on California bones, a resolve to resist, the overwhelming night…

Crawling out the window, shimmying down the dying grapevine, the still sticky night air, heat lingering, clinging, slapping skin, hop, skip, tripping through the neighbours yard, the gravel driveway, a stretch of asphalt, loping along the tracks south to town, sliding down the coal tailings, slipping on the dead, dark-damp Pavilion lawn, the ancestral miners soccer pitch, tiptoeing into the river, that slight stream, the wet slippery stones, ankle deep, bent under drooping boughs, half-moon light, under the bridge, a sludge of mud flats, scrap iron scarring the low tide, the soft sea-slop sucking me down into a slurping mire of mud.

Yet, still the song sounds sweet and sad…

“I can hear my lover call…come to me…”

My lover? My lover! No lover, mine.

Mind?

Do I think this?

Can I hear her?

Does she speak to me?

“This is how you grieve for me?

How outrageous you are?

How selfish?

Grieve for yourself, young fool.

Never for me!“

And there I am, floundering in the sweeping sewage, my self, swirling in my own mournful mash.

“No return, no return, no return.”

It ricochets, the rumble of the river. Mine. Hers.

Mine, my river swims to the shallows. My hands swarm into the bog, fingers clutching the spillage, rocks, busted shells, artifacts of remorse, shards of metal, the foul quagmire of industrial rejects, a boneyard of rotting rubber.

With the East at my back, the humdrum august sun rises over the island beyond. I am exposed, naked, a runt in long shadows. Dawn traffic hammers into the day. Each step in the muck draws me down deeper. Knees! Thighs.

I am swallowed.

Gasoline air revives me, the bridge jamboree fuel fires me alive.

I retrace my descent, the slurry releases me back to the river’s mouth, akimbo scrambling along the stones, stumbling into pools, cleansing, breathing.

My recoil outruns the revealing sun.

“No return, no return…”

###

***KAY KINGSLEY, SECOND PLACE***

FREE-WRITE: Here’s To Us

What’ll you have?”

“Surprise me.” I said with a smile.

It was my bachelorette party and next weekend I would be Mrs. Jack Thompson. Looking off in the distance I waited for my drink and for the first time in a long time, I thought about Rory.

****

We were madly in love the summer before I left for college. I was leaving in August and begged him to come with me. His response was always, “We’ll see” as he winked and flashed me a smile. He loved our town and I knew he wouldn’t leave but he also knew I couldn’t stay. We knew we had the summer to love without limits no matter what the future might bring.

Nearly every night we camped by the river in the canyon where the air was cooler and the sweet smell of dry grass hung thick. Serenaded by the songs of crickets and frogs, we would talk for hours into the night by firelight, discovering each other, discovering who we were and laughing until our sides hurt.

One night while we sat by the fire we drank Mudslides from ice filled coffee mugs and talked about growing old together. We joked about grandkids, grey hair and doctor’s appointments. We were drunk and happy in love as we entertained all our dreams that night. It was, however, the closest we would come to growing old together. Two months after I left for college, Rory died in a motorcycle accident, taking all of our dreams with him.

****

The bartender touched my arm pulling me back into the moment, “Something told me you might like this.” and with a wink he walked away placing a Mudslide over ice in front of me.

I raised my glass and smiled. “Here’s to us, Rory.”

###

99-WORD ORIGINAL POV: Summer Dreams

Rory and I were madly in love the summer before I left for college. I begged him to come with me but his dream was to run the farm and my dream was to see the world.

Thinking this summer might be our last we lived to discover each other, to discover ourselves, shaping who we would become.

Our dreams gave us the hope that our reality could not. We dreamed of growing old together, side by side, hand in hand.

Months after I left, Rory died in a motorcycle accident taking all of our dreams along with him.

###

99-WORD DIFFERENT POV: Rory

“I let her go. I wanted to go with my whole heart but I couldn’t give her the life she was seeking. This life is my speed and honestly, a bigger world outside this city terrifies me. I never thought she’d be mine in the first place and now my heart is hers forever. The way I could show her I loved her was to let her go, taking the best part of me with her. Now the only way to quiet my mind is to ride my motorcycle through the wind, chasing her memory, waiting for her return.”

###

59-WORD + ALTERNATE POV NUGGET: Payback

A tearful goodbye. Crushed, he promised he’d visit.

I wanted to leave and he had to stay but we needed each other, and like a sapling nurtured, our love grew into an Oak that summer.

Friends said he was “chasing her memory, waiting for her return” when the accident happened.

With him went my heart, my payback for leaving.

###

9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION

Sapling nurtured, love grows an Oak death can’t fell [strength]

Unanswered dreams denied by fate suspended our love eternally [sadness]

###

SECOND DRAFT: Dancing With The Leaves

I could feel the warm breeze on my face and although I lacked the strength to really move, I could still close my eyes and smile. The time between opening my eyes after closing them was getting longer and longer and I knew it wouldn’t be long now. While the breeze billowed the white curtains and the shadows from the birch danced across my comforter, peace settled within me as I lay in bed remembering.

I wound my memory clock as far back as it would go and I slowly let my memories tick by, savoring each one as they passed, hoping to revisit them all before I had to go. Like an afternoon spent with an old friend, there was a lot to catch up on.

I drifted through the snapshots of my life and felt again the depths of my humanness.

Jack and I had been married for 53 long, beautiful years. We raised two children together, grew a business together, traveled the world, watched as our family grew from our original 4 to now 16, with another great grand baby on the way. Sure, we had our fights, said our angry words, but we cried our tears and then apologized and we always grew stronger together.

And with my eyes still closed, I said my thankful farewell to Jack somewhere deep within my heart.

I opened my eyes and watched the leaves dancing back and forth to the music of the breeze and closed them again to see Rory that summer before college all those years ago.

We were so in love but I had to get out of that small town. I pleaded with him to come with me but he couldn’t leave and I couldn’t stay so that summer we lived and loved enough for a lifetime.

I can still see us camped by the river in the canyon, talking for hours into the night, discovering each other and who we were. I can still hear the clink our tin mugs made as we drank by the campfire and laughed about growing old together. Grandkids, grey hair, doctor’s appointments, all of it. I thought we’d be together forever and I guess in a way we have been even though his death parted us nearly 50 years ago. When Charlotte was born seven months later, it kept a part of Rory here beside me forever. It’s funny how love continues to grow long after we think it can’t. She was and still is my saving grace. Charlotte and my son Robert, grew my heart in directions I didn’t know existed. My heart is full. “Goodbye, my loves” I whisper as I open my eyes for the last time.

I die knowing I’ve lived a life on love’s spectrum and like a sapling nurtured, love grew an Oak death couldn’t fell.

Slowly I exhale from my heart into the wind, taking all the love with me as I dance with the leaves.

###

***PETE FANNING, THIRD PLACE***

FREE-WRITE: Untitled

They were dancing when the winds picked up, throwing smoke and ash and char from the hills. The gusts flipped their hair, fluttered their shirts, knocked them back with a howl before it chased them into the kitchen.

The radio issued warnings, emergency broadcasts of wildfires and evacuations. The music returned and they smiled, flushed, tasting the savory burn of summer heat, smoke, and the thrill of escape.

They danced as the fires ate their fill, digested the land and exhaled with a smolder. The rain pummeled the leaky roof, filling window sills, flecking their arms as they danced. When the mudslides followed, heavy, unyielding, causing the power to flicker, they continued do dance because they were young and nothing too terrible can happen to those who are young and in love. Even when sandbags line the streets.

Their parents called with frantic tones. But there was big news.

The baby arrived in spring. They bought a house and danced in celebration. They filled the kitchen with shiny objects, insured against disasters. They tested the smoke alarms. They wore phones on their hips and met deadlines. They boxed up the radio, the dog-eared novels, the thrift store furnishings.

Summer passed, fires raged. The child danced as the news reported the damage. They hushed the child. They worried about the planet. Who could dance at times like these?

Years whirled ahead. They saved for the child’s education. They bought sandbags to protect against the mudslides—to halt the disasters sliding towards their home.

The child grew. Until he took his youthful dance to college. They boxed up what he didn’t want, and found what they’d left behind.

The radio, through tinny speakers puffing out the dust of fires settled, seemed like a time machine.

And so they danced.

###

99-WORD ORIGINAL POV

They swayed through the wind, unlacing a lifetime of long hours and late nights, overtime and office meetings. Moving slower now, a careful waltz, drifting to a different house on a different street, when fires burned, and ash fell like snowfall that clung to their hair. They twirled back, before the blurry debris of vacations and promotions, frantic hospitals, a baby clinging to life with each breath—crashing down with the weight of what was to come. When they danced out of restlessness, to rain and music, when they slid through the mud and laughed the whole way down.

###

99-WORD DIFFERENT POV

Across the street, the neighbors danced and carried on, radio blaring, the girl laughing and twirling in the fog and ashes from the wildfires on the hill. Eventually, the winds drove them in, but I could still hear them.

How could people dance at times like this?

When the heavy rains swept in, flooding with the mudslides and mess, the lights went out and I was left in the dark, an old man with only his thoughts to get him through. And the couple across the street, still dancing, candles flickering in the kitchen, it made me feel okay.

###

59-WORD + ALTERNATE POV NUGGET: Untitled

Swaying in the grass, a small lifetime burned between two silhouettes. They’d been lost in a rhythm when the winds stirred the debris of life. When the ashes fell and grayed their hair. When their love was framed in a neighbor’s window. When they refused the warnings of rains, fires…mudslides. How could you not dance during times like these?

###

9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION

Whether fire or rain, they danced through the pain. [Happy]

Two souls, one dance. Muddy shoes, singing the blues. [Love]

SECOND DRAFT: Untitled

They were dancing when the winds picked up, carrying ash and char from the hills. The gusts sifted through their hair, fluttered their shirts, and knocked them back with a howl before chasing them into the house.

They collapsed onto the sagging kitchen floor in a whirl of laughter. They caught their breaths as the radio issued stern warnings and strict advice—emergency broadcasts of the wildfires and evacuation routes. Their eyes met and they laughed just as the music returned, and they stood, still flushed, not as much from the weather but from the wild rush of love crashing through their bodies.

A smoky fog extinguished the sun. The fires ate their fill before the sky turned inward and the rains pummeled the leaky roof. They huddled at the window sill like children, as flecks of water found their arms. They were back to dancing when the flooding started, and still when the mudslides came, heavy, unyielding, causing the power to flicker then fail.

The dancing, the candlelit poverty, the sandbags lining the streets. It was the perfect setting for a marriage proposal.

With the pregnancy news, their parents issued stern warnings and strict advice. The young couple exchanged smirks, the phone tucked the phone between their necks as they giggled. Because they had no idea.

The weather broke. The streets cleared. They got married and bought a house and danced in every room. The baby arrived, healthy and full, with eyes that stole their breaths and stalled their hearts. But the song changed abruptly. It was as though the record skipped and derailed the groove of time. And just that simple, the world became dangerous.

They worked to get ahead. They planned and they met deadlines. They fought. They made up. They filled the kitchen with shiny appliances. They tested the smoke alarms. Batteries. Flashlights. Candles. The dusty radio, the dog-eared novels, the cheesy love letters and curled photos were reduced to a storage box.

Summers passed. Seasons turned. Neighbors changed. They saved for the child’s education, family vacations, even their own retirement. They purchased life insurance. New locks to halt the deluge of disasters trying to break into their home. But it came. A ding on the phone, monitors at gas stations, the scrolling politics, scandals, hunger, violence, wildfires…mudslides. Yet the boy smiled. And what a smile it was, only they couldn’t figure out where they’d seen that smile before.

He was smiling now. His new car was packed with new groceries, dorm room furnishings, and all of his invincible youth. They issued stern warnings and strict advice as the boy backed out, gripping each other as a final gust of reality hit them straight on. In the kitchen, they sulked, they marveled, they laughed when they realized where they’d seen that smile.

She found the emergency candles. He dug out the radio. They dimmed the lights and tuned in to a station that had been lost in time.

And they danced.

###

***LIZ HUSEBYE HARTMANN, HONORABLE MENTION***

FREE-WRITE: Mudslide

Dahlia stood on the high embankment, past midnight, clutching her biceps as the swollen creek tore past. She’d been trying to hike her way to a decision along the Stuttgart Township trail, in the intermittent midnight rain. Billy was waiting for an answer. Always waiting, but never really hearing what she said. She wondered if he would grow out of that.

Lightning flashed stark, followed by the tang of ozone. After a few beats, thunder shook the ground. Dahlia stepped forward and peered over the edge to get a better perspective on the flood waters. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the coppery scents of red clay and leaf rot.

She knew Billy loved her. She’d loved him in childhood for how far he could hawk a loogie. He’d been equally impressed with her signature spitfire pitch that sizzled across home plate striking out batter after batter. By junior high, her baseball skills were so impressive that the neighboring towns’ teams wouldn’t play her town anymore. So she’d folded and took up running, instead.

“Dahlia’s running riot,” the townsfolk sighed, as she jogged past the pane glass window of the barbershop on Main, or declined buttery baked goods at the Women’s Sewing Circle. She’d been good enough, though, to have earned a Track and Field scholarship at an out-of-state college and take a semester in Germany. Her teammate, Beatriz, had family there.

Billy wanted her to get married immediately, and not return to college. Such an old-fashioned boy, she marveled. Opening her eyes, Dahlia poked out her tongue to catch refreshing cold, clean raindrops. She stepped back from the roiling creek and turned away. Flash of lightning, clap of thunder, and a burst of rain drummed the ground. The embankment loosened and slid into the torrent behind her.

###

99-WORD DIFFERENT POV: Barbershop Duet

“Dahlia’s runnin’ riot!” Emil snapped. My barber shears nearly trephined his freckled, balding head.

“What is it now?”

“She wants another semester in Germany, ‘stead of marrying my grandnephew Billy!” The barber cape rustled indignantly.

“She’s only nineteen,” I murmured.

Turning my attention back to Emil’s shaggy fringe, I remembered my own sweet Rose, who’d run off to Paris and never returned. It’d opened the door to darling Daisy, my true life partner.

“Think of her as a fine wine. She’ll be better a bit aged.”

“Or turn to vinegar,” huffed Emil. “Ouch! Dammit, Leon!”

“Sorry. My scissors slipped.”

###

99-WORD ORIGINAL POV: Priorities (original POV)

Dahlia yelped, scrambling from the mudslide to the shelter of her and Billy’s willow. Grasping its trunk with one arm, she turned. The embankment was gone, the creek chomping greedily at loose stones and the last summer blooms.

Was this a sign? Of what?

She slid down the thick trunk, slim fingers tracing letters carved so long ago:

Billy + Dahlia

4Ever.

Still true. But she also had some growing up to do. She had an answer for him, just not the one he wanted.

First things first. She ran back to town; the floodwaters were spreading too fast.

###

59-WORD + ALTERNATE POV NUGGET: [Loss + Time => Happy Endings]

“You seen Billy?” Dahlia poked her head inside the barbershop door.

“Just left. Hurry, and you can tell him you’ll marry him,” growled Emil, from the chair.

“Slow down, and you can give it more thought,” smiled Leon, barber shears aloft.

She dashed out in the torrential rain, still undecided. Meanwhile, the creek swelled dangerously and the embankment groaned.

###

9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION

Everybody had opinions, but the mudslide called it in. [acceptance]

Dahlia embraces freedom as New Stuttgart is washed away. [disapproval]

###

***RITU BHATHAL, HONORABLE MENTION***

FREE-WRITE: Just Another Day

The lights were flashing all around.

Peter sat, wrapped up in an emergency blanket. The chill of the cold and wet seeping through his clothes and penetrating his skin, left him feeling like fingers of ice were creeping through his veins.

“You alright mate?” Kate sat next to him. “We did it! All fifteen safe.”

*

He had been sitting there idly at the desk, only a couple of hours before.

The rain lashing down had obviously put off potential climbers tonight.

A yawn threatened to break out, but instead he surreptitiously covered his mouth and allowed a slow one to escape.

“I’m just going to make a brew. You want one?”

Kate’s head jerked up. “God yeah. I need some caffeine. I can’t handle being here when it’s so quiet!”

He found two mugs and flicked the kettle on, preparing for a couple of minutes to daydream, while it boiled.

The phone rang.

Then the other one started.

He spooned coffee into the mugs, savouring the aroma, but wishing it was a decent, strong espresso that he was smelling, and not the instant kind.

Another call came through as he walked back.

He picked it up, aware that Kate was already on a call. “Hello, mountain rescue, how can I assist?”

As he listened, it all got a little crazy. A cacophony of beeps coming through, as all the other lines started to light up.
Peter could barely hear what the caller was trying to say, as the line kept breaking up.

“Help… rain… slipping… mud…”

It cut off.

He turned to look at the job board that Kate was hastily scrawling across.

Mudslide
North side
Group of fifteen
Eleven trapped above
Four disappeared

She looked across at him. “Time to go, Petey. Call for reinforcements.”

###

99-WORD ORIGINAL POV: Just Another Day

Another quiet night in the rain left Peter twiddling his thumbs.

“D’ya wanna drink, Kate?”

“Make it a strong one mate, I can hardly keep my eyes open. Hate it when it’s so quiet. Eerie, almost.”

Peter heard the phones ringing and rushed back with two hastily filled cups of coffee.

“Mountain Rescue. Yes. Where. How many? Right. On our way.”

He looked up at Kate who was busy filling the job board with the details.

“Not had to deal with a mudslide for a while now.” She glanced over to where he was sitting. “Will you be okay?”

###

99-WORD DIFFERENT POV: Just Another Day

I hate it when there’s nothing to do.

Nights like that night really dragged. It was quiet. The weather was awful.

I needed to do something constructive, so got up to make a drink, offering to get Kate one too.

It seemed like the phones started to ring off the hook as soon as I left my seat.

“Mountain Rescue.”

My blood turned cold as I heard the word – mudslide.

I could hear Kate asking me if I was okay, whether I was ready for this, but I felt rooted to the spot.

Could I do this? Again?

###

59-WORD + ALTERNATE POV NUGGET: Just Another Day

“Mountain Rescue. Yes? Where? How many?”

The phones rang out – every line beeping, yet Peter felt unable to answer one.

He sat there, rooted to the spot, flashbacks of that night, two years ago playing through his mind.

Abandoned cups of coffee sat there, slowly getting colder.

“It’s a mudslide Pete,” Kate gently approached him. “Will you be okay?”

###

9-WORD SUMMATIONS WITH EMOTION

Mudslide. This could not be happening again – could it? [Fear]

Fear aside. They need me. I’ve got to help. [Courage]

###

Carrot Ranch Literary Community makes literary art accessible 99 words at a time through flash fiction challenges and a group of contests called the Rodeo. 

Full Copyright of individual entries remains with the original author. Collection as a whole is the property of Carrot Ranch Literary Community. Sponsors help fund future events, free weekly challenges and free contests.

Entries are as submitted and not edited. Entries not meeting the specified word count or specific contest rules are not included at the discretion of each contest leader and judges.

Published by Carrot Ranch Literary Community led by Lead Buckaroo, Charli Mills.

International headquarters in Hancock, Michigan, USA

Contact Carrot Ranch

%d bloggers like this: