Winslow Homer 1893
The falling snow piled around his hut, the shelter he’d built at the edge of the woods, from stone and fallen trees, meadow grass and mud, the retreat that was far enough away from the Hold that he rarely got visitors, but near enough that he could watch the lights wink out in the north tower when the weather was clear. Continue reading
The dirt road that stretched into the darkness was flooded. Their car, tire flattened, windshield cracked and leaking, had slid into the ditch.
“You’re sure this is it?” Continue reading
We were deep into the first cavern when a rockslide shook the sandy ground beneath our feet, sealing off the entrance, any external light source, and all hopes of exiting the way we’d entered. Continue reading
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Bok choy and thin-sliced carrots, a bit past their freshness date, sizzled in the pan. She sniffed the aromas of sesame oil, lime, and Moroccan baked tofu. The sharp scent of sliced onion softened, long layers relaxing, rolling and shining over her cooking spoon. Continue reading
“What instrument shall I use, and what medium to convey my deepest and most honest wishes?” Annalisa, one hand holding her elbow, the other holding her chin, scanned the open drawer filled with seven different kinds of pens (one with eight different nibs for calligraphy), a half dozen different colored inks, brushes of many sizes and an uncounted number of acrylic paints (some rolled tight into tiny secret snails of color, others fat and shiny like a slug that didn’t give a shit), a box of 50-count soft pastels (none broken, but all tested and of different lengths…a lovely diversity), and no markers of any kind as she detested them. Continue reading
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