A spattering of cold wet wind drove under Thomas’s coat as he headed up the driveway toward the back of the clubhouse. The tangle of trees in the dark ravine behind the nine-hole course was a graveyard of lost balls. He slid down the icy hill to the bottom, crunching through leaves and pushing aside the underbrush.
(Selections from my short story “Lonely Cries The Winter Wind.”)
Hello! If you are here because of the opinion piece in The New York Times about Mary Bennet, and would like to read The Unexpected Miss Bennet, you’ve come to the right place. Here’s where Read more…
Note: I originally wrote this in January 2017. It felt right to revisit. I think this time though, I am going to raise my head and my voice. I went to bed in the Shire, Read more…
I just saw IT. And a few days ago Jack Conner reminded me that it was Stephen King’s birthday. Whereupon I commented that King is the Charles Dickens of our time. Some writers are meant Read more…
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