She lived for the cool night breeze, like a cloud in the sky, free and easy, always wandering. I often wondered if she’d just wandered...

Dedicated to Louis Clinton Carrier, my grandfather          I remember running through the forest of endless trees, skylight breaking...

You forced my hand. When you modernized, flying all around the world in your airplanes, I could have mutated, evolved. I could have...

The tracks parallel the Japan Sea coast. On one side, a fishing boat’s lights on dark water, on the other, towns too small for a stop,...

Lystra left the river behind her, walking with her basket of clean clothes on her head, wishing for the hundredth time that she could...

Do I or do I not cross? The question echoes in my mind as I watch the rolling hills outside my window. Clumps of green that rise and...

I was thirteen years old that July in 1952 that they let Uncle Buddy out of the pen long enough to come home for Mammaw’s funeral, or so...

One night when I was about 10, I dreamt I was in a library. A lady walked up. She looked familiar. She didn’t say anything but when...

Four weeks in, as a petition for absolution, I hiked, occasionally encountering other pilgrims as we weaved France’s verdant, wooded,...

I didn’t know at the time how I came unstuck. It happened on a day like any other day. I was taking a walk in my neighborhood. I do this...

The white GM box truck with ‘J Corduroy, Antiques – Collectibles’  on the side in scraped brown paint bounced us as the big tires rolled...

Which is the more difficult thing to do—love your immediate surroundings for the way they nurture you? Or hate them for all that they’ve...

All this happened back in 1965 when the Vietnam War was raging, and my high school pals and I were reading  MAD Magazine  and  The...

Those who do not want to lose their blindfolds for fear of the light, deserve the dark. – Quechan proverb   Cusco, Peru   "Not far now!"...

A few weeks before the Fourth of July, I was curled up on my couch, enjoying the soft light of the patio through my sliding doors, ready...

“Titles matter little. We are the children of our works.” —Don Quijote de la Mancha     Madrid,  23 de junio, 1656, Stilo Novo          ...

1 My knees and hands were bleeding and hurt like the dickens, but I was still holding onto the seashell I had picked up from the darkened...

I paid a goodbye visit to Windburn Barn figuring a bunch of college kids would have rented it by now, but there were no cars in the...

(Content warning: this story contains sensitive material related to child sexual abuse. Please read at your own discretion.) The music...

Willie sat on a week's old newspaper on the corner of Michigan and Adams, across from the Art Institute in downtown Chicago. It was a...