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He brought me flowers once, three wilted carnations I put in water, though the sight of them made me uneasy. He brought me pictures once, too, of three sisters—ten, twelve, fourteen—straddling dirt bikes. He touched my shoulder once, as I edited pictures …
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I imagine diving into a vat of dried fruit, enjoying the unmistakable sweetness in each shriveled morsel, until I find myself biting into an undetected metal shard.
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A behind the scenes look at the character designs of the Arcana Magi Universe.
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I met Barry Hannah once in my life. I’d come to Oxford, MS, to meet an entirely different writer whom I thought then and think now very highly of. I’d also come to escape from another slew of regrets. Oxford is a great city to run away to.
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Here and there, paper boats smeared with ketchup drift against a tide of brochures: PETA, Planned Parenthood, Greenpeace, while we rage: a joyful storm surge threatening the levy of bouncers.
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“Life is on life’s terms,” she told me once. Her arm, wrapped in clear cellophane, was freshly adorned with a green-pigmented sand-dollar: a living shell.
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You can see the humped black rocks, majestic with that poetic looking surf around them just fine from up here, so most folks never even go down the stairs. They snap one, two, three shots and pile back into their cars and head south for the Trees of Myste
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I do not yet really understand the power I seem to have at this moment. And I am certainly too young to recognize that it will end up being weakness, too.
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A month before the real flowers came, amputated trees for 31 miles were festooned with pink blossoms. The petals were tufts of Fiberglass insulation shorn from houses incapable of withstanding 260-mph winds -- more than twice the punch Katrina delivered t
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There was a memorial on the Berkeley Pier where you liked to fish.
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From a window, the young Pole Krzysztof Penderecki saw resistance fighters hanged by Nazis...
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Always after opening his beer, my grandfather would place the bottle cap between his thumb and forefinger and bend it in half.
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"If Hillary can forgive Bill, why can't you forgive Dad?" my seven-year-old son wails one night as I put him to bed.
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Are they too old for life's little pleasures? The answer comes as I pass them on the canyon road one morning.
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