Vespers-Compline Isabel had furnished the bleak little dungeon with a candle, a chamber-pot, a wash-basin, and a strung pallet wide enough for two. When she entered, Anselm and Catherina were seated on it, slumped over, utterly exhausted. Margareta stood next to them. She’d brought bread and cheese and a ewer of water, but the Perfected
Late June Sweet day wanes. I’ll wait until dark before Turning on the light.
Cowboy Up: Dave Edmiston and the Mississippi Kid “If you’re looking for sympathy you can find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.” -Dave The skinny guy on the tight little pinto started talking to us as if he’d known us all his life. We were leaning on the corral fence of the Moose
________________________________________ by Saki ________________________________________ (From THE CHRONICLES OF CLOVIS) ________________________________________ It was a chill, rain-washed afternoon of a late August day, that indefinite season when partridges are still in security or cold storage, and there is nothing to hunt—unless one is bounded on the north by the Bristol Channel, in which case one may lawfully
FALLING OFF HORSES (Note: I wrote this piece a number of years ago, and published it in Terry Ross’s Magazine BLACK LAMB. Those of you who’d like to read about riding to the hounds in Moore County, North Carolina, back in the 1950s, should read Almet Jenls’s eerie parable “The Huntsman At The Gate,” available,
The old forester Died alone in the woods. Now his skin is bark.
The Second Day Terce The same boy who had brought the Senhor’s summons and the strange instrument woke them early. He was a cocky little fellow, Jannequin thought, with something of the catamite about him, and as he rousted the musicians awake he made it clear that he was an important personage. “Senhor Bernier has
Oh Donny boy, your poll numbers are falling In all the states, and now on every side Those you despise are rising up and calling For you to go, to go away and hide. In November the vote will lay you very low. When all your fairways turn to mud and muck, No sunshine for
“If an agent submits a manuscript written by a gay transgender Caribbean who dropped out of school at seven and travels around on a mobility scooter, it will be published” – Lionel Shriver, author of “We Need To Talk About Kevin,” arguing that even if a book is “incoherent, tedious, meandering and insensible, “it will
The Yellow Violet – by William Cullen Bryant When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, The yellow violet’s modest bell Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in