William Stafford (the Novelist, not the Poet)
“It’s the eighth outbreak within a week,” Elizabeth nodded at the television. Victor affected a nonchalant grunt, keeping his gaze on his crossword puzzle. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. 438 more words
1 week, 1 day ago
Words for the Year
Remind me again—together we
trace our strange journey, find
each other, come on laughing.
Some time we’ll cross where life
ends. We’ll both look back… 40 more words
1 week, 3 days ago
Freedom is not following a river.
Freedom is following a river
though, if you want to.
It is deciding now by what happens now.
It is knowing that luck makes a difference. 105 more words
1 week, 5 days ago
The Vale of Soul-Making
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off—they were still singing, They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the… 74 more words
2 weeks ago
When there was air, when you could
breathe any day if you liked, and if you
wanted to you could run. I used to
climb those hills back of town and… 89 more words
A writer is not so much someone
who has something to say
as he is someone who has found a process
that will bring about new things… 31 more words
“The Way It Is”
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing. 849 more words
2 weeks, 2 days ago