Remembrance of their wool trousers still lingers on the bluestem. I walk their streets at night to watch the curtains for wind.

So the beautiful old men fill her days. Their beauty comes from their gentleness, their quiet voices, the way they sit so still, hour by hour, causing no harm, giving a sense of peace and complete good-will.

October Unruly flocks of geese trumpet and bleat, wings beat, hidden in a shroud of mist over still water Newly fallen leaves lay sodden and silent on the stony path, their season spent Cornstalks lean in rusty fields, crepe paper strands fluttering like feathers on…

On some evenings, when I would sneak out of my room, I'd sit on the verandah and count the streetlights. I'd count the stars in the sky and trace the moon with the tip of my finger and consider how anyone could make it through the night when there were so

She got a whiff of something unpleasant. It wasn’t the food. More like very gamey body odor. An unwashed bottom. His dirty derriere. The odor traveled up through Chester’s clothes and made her choke. She gagged but didn’t comment because that would only make him more proud.

The news just now that you are dead

Was there a difference? I wonder now. Jumping, diving – would it have changed the outcome? Would Cally have surfaced that day if instead of gently dropping from the edge like some graceful bird, she hit the water feet first?

He trudged up the steep, antique, spiral staircase to his study. Many hours had been spent in the sanctuary of this room, studying, praying, sleeping; however, now his intentions were much different.