Archives: August 2015

During the Storm and After

The windmill howled like a man being boiled alive, blades turning fast as an airplane propeller, dry  gears gnashing as the  fan-tail whipped  against the fresh black gale. A moan of the tornado sirens in town started up, fought the wind to drift across the fields to my porch where I sat in my cane-back chair

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The Answer Lies Within

The old woman held up a hand demanding  silence, her gauzy sleeve almost trailing into the candle. I had a hard time not laughing, but Cherie was  wearing what I recognized as her “church face,” somber and pious and overtly attentive. If she was allowed to talk she would likely have used big unfamiliar words and slathered

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