I sit and look out my back window into the yard behind my house. It is large and full of trees; a combination of fir and pine and aspen. On this day, early in the morning, it is cold and fog is moving in. The white/grey translucent mist sneaks its way into the yard. It
In the darkness, you were dreaming. Dreaming and that is all. You did not see what you thought you saw. You did not experience what you thought you thought was so real. There was not a shape, a shape in the darkness. There was nothing at all. You wake to the sound of drums; a
We walked along the beach, my companion and I, on a cloud-filled morning in late autumn. The air was cold and filled with misty rain. It was the kind of weather that sticks to you; it gets in deep and stays there no matter the layers of clothes you put on. And it was gray.
On my 16th birthday my brother gave me a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and it changed my life forever. Not really. It would be nice if it did, if it worked that way. Like a movie, all cut and dry. Defined beginning, movement toward clear resolution, satisfying ending. That would be nice.
I remember the night my father left. I was six. My mother told me the news with tears and sobs. My aunt, her sister, was there for hugs and support. We were in the kitchen at a yellow table; we sat on plastic covered seats. The window was open; I could smell chicken cooking next
Hello everyone to this thing that I do. In this episode I'm telling fairy tales, talking about fantasy and why writing is fun. I also made up a word. I have always been a big fan of fantasy and speculative fiction and my stories are more and more often headed in that direction. This story
I am 16 years old and I am sitting on the hood of my car in the parking lot of a 7-11 next to the girlfriend of my best friend. The car is a ’79 Chevy Citation, grey and dented. I bought it with money I borrowed from my grandfather, but I tell everyone at
The view was magnificent. I could have sat there forever, just watching; letting the moment linger. If left to myself I suppose I would have. I was content to just sit. Sit and think and drink the spiced sangria that tasted both sweet and sour at the same time. To sit and look out over
When I met with the funeral home people they spoke in low tones and stood stooping slightly forward like old English butlers do in movies. I assumed this was meant to give me a sense of ease and comfort. This was not the impression they gave me. What they did give me were two brochures;
I did not cry. I hadn't realized this until I stood over my father's grave, staring down onto his coffin covered with single flowers and a light dusting of snow that had just begun to fall. Not one tear. It was cold. I flipped the collar of my coat and pulled it around my face
