|
|
|
Lazette Gifford, "Into
Darkness":
I left my little office early because of a surprising urge to jog and
clear away some of the detritus that had built up in my head from my last
case. I hadn't jogged in quite a while, and the weather today looked
perfect: cloudy and cool, with a slight summer-going-to-autumn breeze.
Niko Silvester, "Come-From-Away":
One January day, I'm walking down the main street of downtown St. John's,
Newfoundland, where I go to graduate school. It's called Water Street, but
despite its name, all of the buildings on the seaward side face in,
turning their backs on the harbour. It's the kind of contradiction I've
noticed a lot since moving here. Life depends on the sea, yet people try
to forget it exists; tradition is valued, but old handcrafted furniture
rots in backyard sheds or is sold to tourists.
Troy Morash, "The Two
Carpenters":
There was, and probably still is, a tiny village where the sun never
shines. In this tiny village it always rained or was cloudy. People were
always cursing as they got stuck in the mud or dirtied up their houses.
Daniel J. Bishop, "Acting the
Legend":
Perhaps it was fate that made him what he was, fate that had drawn him to
a deserted beach in Northern California, on a warm autumn night. He was an
athletic man, with thin pale hair redrawn in dark melancholy strands by
the damp air. The ocean, muffled by the low fog, hushed into the rocky
shore. The taut membrane of the night sky stretched tight overhead, ready
to burst golden starry shrapnel at the slightest provocation. The clouds
had settled on the ground, and the stars were brighter than the slivered
moon.
D. Harlan Wilson, "My
Barbarian":
The barbarian wasn't working out. It kept defecating all over the
upholstery, and whenever the wife and I had company over it insisted on
tackling and molesting every last cleavage-toter it could get its bony,
gritty fingers on. I decided to return it.
Gary Allen, "Remittance":
Flattened by the howling wind, the flowering heather clung to whatever
foothold it could find along the sides of the steep valley. A heavy mist
sat along Dyrdd Llanon Gwyr's spine, frustrating the crying peregrines
wheeling overhead. Pausing beside the valley's raging river, the rider
squinted up at the calling raptors for a moment before urging his horse on
along the rocky bank. It was not safe for him to tarry here. This was wild
country and he had a long way to ride before dusk.
Back to the top of this page.
|