Anecdotes

Anecdote IX. There But By the Grace of God Go We

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Lask lounged in the back seat of Elanor’s Amanti, his deep purple cape spilling over the edge of the seat and pooling in the floorboard. They were on their way to Richmond to see Celtic Woman later that evening. Elanor had the radio on, and was singing along to Bright as it played. Jackie was bobbing her head along out of time, and it brought a fond smile to Lask’s face. He watched a black SUV whiz past them on the right as they traveled down I-95. Something flickered in the far corner of his vision, and as his gaze more »

Anecdotes

Anecdote VIII. The Thing in the Woods

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I was thirteen the first time I came face to face with real Darkness in the waking world. I often liked to walk in the woods behind my parents’ house. It was November, and I had gone walking after school. I followed the familiar path down into the trees, across the creek, and around the bend up to the ridge above the creek bed. I was alone, and knew this part of the woods like I knew the freckles on my arm. The trees were part of me; I had grown up in their shade. I wasn’t afraid to walk more »

Anecdotes

Anecdote VII. – The Prologue of Falling

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August 3rd, 1990 • Avigdell The sun was warm on his face as Lask rode the wind. After waking, and pulling on something to ward off the upper clouds’ chill, he leapt from his balcony and thrust himself upward toward morning. He glided over the island, banking and somersaulting in the air, the wind carrying him high toward the sun, before he embraced himself in his wings and fell back toward the island. He closed his eyes, relishing the wind on his face, before he flared his wings with a thrum of rushing feathers, and soared out toward the western more »

Poetry

How to Read a Story [poem]

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A response to English 295: Intro to Literary Theory A story isn’t meant to be taken out of its comfortable pages and reprinted a hundred times on clinical white paper. A story isn’t meant to be captured, beaten and pinned down to a desk with pens and cut open with the razors of analysis. You cannot slice it apart and rifle through its entrails and syntax and hope to cut the heart out of it. You can, I suppose, do these things, if your goal is to kill a story, for nothing kills a story like a magnifying glass and more »