Archives: February 2018

Summer, 1914

“IF I TRY TO FIND some useful phrase to sum up the time of my childhood and youth before the First World War, I hope I can put it most succinctly by calling it the Golden Age of Security.”
― Stefan Zweig, The World of Yesterday: Memoirs of a European

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A Family of Three Now

My wife brought in the stack of Christmas cards to sign.  I shook my head. “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.” She smiled. “I like to get a jump on things.” I almost said probably addressed them in January, but I caught myself in time. I thanked her and went to my study. I opened the first

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Principles

Poke leaned hard in the saddle. I could see his face was chalk-white underneath the beard and sunburn. “You don’t look so good, pard,” I said. “Don’t feel so good, neither. That goddamn bitch with the scattergun.” “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. You had plenty of time to shoot her.” Poke looked annoyed,

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Spun Sugar

Your good mood will you mind if it doesn’t last forever? When you get laughing you must know   it all has to end sometime   spun sugar stays fluffy only as long as it stays dry but sooner or later you find out it’s a rainy climate   The Daily Post

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Keeping Appearances

“Am I waking you up?” “I had to get up anyway, Dad. The phone was ringing.” “Ha. Listen, I need you to do something for me.” “Name it.” “I need you to come over and shovel the walk.” “Now?” “Yes, now. Before your mother wakes up.” “It’s four in the morning.” “I know what time

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He Showed Me Something

Clive had made a little clubhouse in the attic from various chairs and lamps. We would sometimes play at marriage. We lay on the floor. I looked over at him. He was a handsome boy, in the English way. Blue eyes and creamy skin. I rolled over and kissed his pink lips. He flew into

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Curiosity

At first it seems mere curiosity, innocent and natural enough, this child’s questions. But he is abject, insatiable. His mother humors him, but the questions soon define the sharp edges of her ignorance. What is the sun, Mama? Where do people go when they die? Why can’t I hear the thoughts of others? Does God

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Fence Line

The matted grass so dense the fencepost I hammer rings jerking from the peen, waving like a stormborne mast until at last it punches through the clang turned to thud soft and unresisting wounding the hillside Weak now, my hands ache as I stretch them in their rotten gloves twisted and black like river trees

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Pollos

Enrique was appalled when he saw his cousin’s pack. He walked around it, whistling. “What do you have in here, Hectór? Furniture?” The boy shrugged, or tried to against the weight of the straps. “You know we’re walking, right?” “Not all the way, Rico.” “The boat takes us only to Salina Cruz. After that, the

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