Always Reading /// Always Writing
Always Reading /// Always Writing
The work below is absolute and undeniable proof that I occasionally write for love and not for money <3
The Forest for the Seas
When you were very small, he told her, on days when you'd wake up too early for your mother, I used to strap you against my chest and out we'd all go together, me and you and Oz, and if bundling you up and clamping you in didn't disturb you past the point of regaining composure, we would just walk and walk, the three of us, and those were the times that, believe it or not, I was so happy that I'd get sad, so content that this dumb melancholy would cut in, cause I would think to myself—she won't remember this, and silly as it sounds, that idea, that idea that we were having such a sweet, wholesome time together but that you'd never really know it happened—it devastated me.
Piano Prodigy Laney Booker’s Big Night
Laney’s public debut as a piano prodigy was a point of serious contention between her mother and father. Marilyn’s misgivings about it were palpable even before any serious argument arose, having guarded her girl’s gifts for years like they were precious, delicate jewels.
The Spoils of Corinth
I do love it here. In here. Out here. Where the elevation reaches equilibrium again, this small stretch of woods just wide enough to obscure all intrusions of neighborly indiscretion. Four acres—not so much in Vermont—but four acres bordered by at least as many on the left and right sides and bound at the far end by the creek, a good one, a small river really, a walking path astride to link the properties, far from any buildings, where in one year of daily wanderings I’d never seen another soul, at least not dog or man, and bears only twice.
La Cabra, VT
Edward, not quite knowing how to hide or to sneak, dressed himself in his father's mighty black bear coat, which felt to Edward like an invisibility cloak, but looked to most like a black bear. And so Edward was nine years old the first time he took a bullet, though thankfully the hunter that nicked him wasn't too good of a shot.
Gertrude
Gertrude’s routine has been without deviation every single day since the world ended. This is not to say, however, that it bears any resemblance to her pre-apocalyptic routine, which was filled with amorous pleasantries and gastronomical curiosities and plenty of exercise. Hers was a certain springtime, always and everywhere, a vignette upon itself in soft sinking brushstrokes until Armageddon tore it apart.