When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.
I Cannot Be Your Quiet
All my years of blustery men and mewishing they’d stop whistling, cutting me off,tightening the tessitura of my voice.I never...
Folklore
Y’all heard the one where the Africans flewoff the plantation?
Ever bed-and-breakfast at Chesapeake Bay, ghostwalk Greenbriar Swamp to hear tale of “Big Liz,”the “heavyset”...
Modern Prometheus
“I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my imagination...
