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
Pace the living room, arms hugging my chest. My growling belly needs comfort and protection, not for need of nourishment, but because it craves. Outside, snow drives sidewise, piling up outside the doors, gathering in dark window corners. Continue reading
“How long ago did you order that pizza?” Sheralynn tipped her wine glass to catch the last drop.
“Hmmm?” Rodney examined the hole in his tube sock, intent on covering up his big toe without using his hands. Continue reading
We’d planned it down to the last detail, listed everything we could control and those things that we could not. Continue reading
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