Then, and Almost Now

In a recent comment, Mermaid got me thinking about the journey of writing: where we started, where we were, where we are now, and where we're going. I thought it might be fun to share another retro poem, then pair it with a similar scene from a novel written a year ago. The short story "Caroline" is a good example of where I am today, but these two pieces offer a glimpse into my own process of growth and learning.

The Attic (February 19, 1988)
House
alone in deep forest
barely seen through sentinel trees
from my bedroom window
when I curl up in soft covers
and let the night
sing me to sleep.
Midnight hours
where wind whistles on eaves,
a light moves between the panes--
a figure
a shadow;
the old wood makes it feel at home.
Seventeen years in this room;
no one has lived over there.
Sleep....
I've seen the woman.
She only wants to watch the moon
slowly drift across of the sky.


Excerpt from THE HICKORY BARRENS (May 2005)

Behind him, a glow suddenly shimmered to life, and a long shadow formed his own silhouette. In the cold illumination, Michael could see thin shapes crossing and waving in an invisible breeze.

The full moon, he thought. It's shining though the window.

He turned around, and a cry was punched from his stomach.

Curled on the window ledge, bathed in the cold light as she stared out to the sleeping world, the figure of Miranda sat. He blinked and blinked, but she still was there. Her dress blended with the pallor of the light as if her entire figure was poured from the moon. Michael's heart bled at the sight of her against the black sky.

Slowly, her cheek turned in his direction. A sense of presence flooded the room, and wispy threads of perfume materialized. Without surprise or hesitation, her eyes connected with him.

The light faltered as an unseen cloud rolled past the face of the moon, and her intensity dwindled. Her expression never changed even as that cloud thickened and pitched the room back into near darkness. In that half light, Michael saw the curves of her face and a glint of reassurance in her eyes.

When the light returned, however, she had vanished.

Folk Art Graves

Imagine the virgin lands of the colonial United States. Imagine the vast
forests of Pennsylvania. Untamed.

When I close my eyes, I can see the settlers digging away the rocks. I can feel the bark tear their skin as they pull down trees. Heaps of branches burn to clear the soil.

Ann Emrich died here, but the old world still infused her bones. Her husband walked out and found her stone in the same field she worked. He brushed away the dirt and sat with his chisel. He scratched the lines to guide him. Simple decorations: lines, wheat, a heart for his love. His fingers dipped into the carvings and tested their depth.

Ann Emrich, laid to rest, in the year 1769.

(St. Peter's United Church of Christ, West Pikeland Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Maple (Retro Poem)

This week has been an unpleasant computer week for me. At home, we experienced the hard drive version of Three Mile Island. I've finally retired that old computer, and now I'm busy setting up the new one and trying to recover as much as I can from the damaged hard drive (including the source files for all but the most recent pictures posted here). I don't want to leave you hanging in the meantime, though. So I'm resurrecting one of the poems I wrote when I was a teenager. That old folder of poetry and short stories is sure fun to dig around in once in a while!

Maple
The old tree by the summerhouse
had branches that reached out and
used to scrape the sky.
I spent a childhood there,
cradled in his arms,
but now it doesn't seem so high.
(Written in 1988)

Evergreens

Wings of the snow
Raked by the trees
Falls underneath
Heavens of green

Remember: John Park Moore

We cling to the enduring strength of stone to fight the fear of being forgotten.

So please take a moment to remember:
John Park Moore
Born Aug. 5, 1843.
Died Nov. 3, 1855.
MY SON MY SON LONG
I SHALL MOURN FOR THEE

I hear the father's words frozen into stone. I see him standing--his grief far deeper than the hole at his feet. I play a [TRIBUTE] for them both, father and son. May its echoes in your memory bring them peace across so many relentless years.

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania. Amazing Grace played on the John Walsh Shuttle Pipes)

PALE IMMORTAL by Anne Frasier

The world of best selling author Anne Frasier is not perfect, and that's what so engaging about it. When a killer stalks in the shadows, the people sent to catch him are never Sherlock Holmes. There are no clipped British accents, no ingenius exercises of logic, no intricate chess matches ending in checkmate. Anne's heros are haunted, conflicted, barely able to function under the onslaught of their own demons. Very often, the killer senses this vulnerability, and the hunt and danger become personal.

Later this year, Anne will release her fifth thriller, PALE IMMORTAL, which is set in a sleepy Wisconsin town haunted by events of 100 years ago, when a man who may have been a vampire slaughtered the town's citizens and drank their blood. Now, another murderer is killing the most vulnerable...and draining their bodies of blood. Having escaped Tuonela's mysterious pull for several years, Rachel Burton is now back in town, filling in as coroner. Even as she seeks to identify the killer, and uncover the source of the evil that seems to pervade the town, she is drawn to a power she's helpless to understand or resist.

Treat yourself to the video for the book HERE.

For a more full description of the story, visit ANNE'S WEBSITE, or even better, drop by and say hello at HER BLOG.

Look for the release September 2006. In the meantime, pick up HUSH, SLEEP TIGHT, PLAY DEAD, and WHEN I WAKE and support a great writer.

Caroline, Part 5, Final (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       David tripped over the chair. The clumsy move broke some of his tension. Grinning, he recovered his balance and followed her into the parlor.
       "Wait up!" he called.
       Down the hallway toward the banquet room, she ran with her hair swaying. For an instant, David wondered if she lied about coming from the wedding party. But she swept into one of the side rooms. Her ribbon whipped outward and her skirt spun as she disappeared.
       David sped up. Leaving the rug, his footfalls clipped along the hall. He approached the doorway, and a sliver of view widened. No movement within.
       He entered, puffing a little from the race.
       "Caro-"
       The word chopped off.
       "Ooh. Geez," he muttered to himself.
       Another person was sitting in a tall chair near the fireplace. David could only see a head peeping over the upholstery. A woman. Straight silver hair was pulled back from her face.
       "I'm sorry," he said as he glanced around the room. "We didn't mean to disturb you."
       Not the appropriate place for hide-and-seek.
       "Caroline? Come on out! We shouldn't play in here."
       He waited.
       Nothing. His smile slackened a little.
       "I'm sorry we're bothering you," he said, walking toward the chair.
       About to ask where Caroline ducked, he circled and saw the old face was sleeping. Embarrassment flamed in his face.
       "Caroline!" he hissed. "Come on! We're going to wake her up. You can show me whatever it is later!"
       Still nothing.
       He shifted his weight to tip-toe away when he saw something twined in the woman's hands. Nothing extraordinary at first, but the glimpse whipped high into his mind, then sparked a clap of thunder.
       A faded and threadbare ribbon. Red perhaps, but the color was exhausted.
       He froze.
       The face. He focused on the face.
       Familiar. Something in the shape of her cheeks, her dainty chin.
       A storm howled in David's brain. Bending down to kneel at her feet, he reached out trembling fingers toward her hands. He touched the skin. Soft and yielding despite the prominent bones. But too cool. Something vital was missing.
       David looked up. The body lay draped with utter stillness.
       The air rushed out of David's chest.
       He scrambled up. He shuffled backwards, away from the chair. Nothing coherent could pierce his pounding thoughts.
       Out. Out.
       He felt for the doorway. Catching the jamb, he side-stepped though.
       And thudded into someone in the hall.
       "Whoa! Sorry there buddy!"
       David snapped around.
       A man in a tuxedo. A woman next to him. David couldn't process more.
       "Didn't mean to crash into you."
       David's mouth opened, then closed.
       "Hey, are you alright?"
       The eyes. Depthless waters. An infinity of blue.
       David nodded, but he was everything except alright.
       "Good. Good," the man said, although he didn't look convinced. "We're just checking on my grandmother."
       The man peeped over David's shoulder.
       Splinters of understanding pieced together. Grew.
       "Caroline," David said softly.
       "Oh! You two have met, then. I hope she didn't talk your ear off."
       "I - I met her earlier."
       The man sneaked another look. "Looks like she's asleep," he said.
       David couldn't bear it. "Yes," he said. "Asleep."
       Caroline's grandson smiled. Another glimmer of the child leapt to David's eyes. The truth landed on his shoulders. And strangling disappointment. The girl was gone.
       "She's been so unbelievably excited this whole trip," the man said, lowering his voice. "She used to come here as a child, you know. With her father. I've heard so many of the stories I feel like I used to come myself."
       David stared, unblinking.
       "It's so sad, though," the man said. "Her father died around then. She was devastated. I know those trips are the most important memories she had of him."
       Someone shouted from down the hall. Someone summoning them back to the party.
       "Did she tell you? That's why she was so excited to come back. She never travels anymore. The past couple days, she's been like a kid again."
       David was losing control. Fast.
       "Well," the man said, "we're going to be a while yet. We'll let her sleep. I can't only imagine the wonderful dreams she's having."
       David turned away. His eyes were flooding.
       "Yeah," he whispered. "That's right. Let her sleep."

Back to Part 4

short story
fiction

Caroline, Part 4 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       David looked down at the empty bar stools beside him. A little absurd for the girl to climb up.
       "I suppose it would be alright for you to stay a little while," David said. His voice betrayed tingling nerves. "You'd probably like to sit down."
       He gestured toward the deep chairs in the corner. She smiled and turned, flashing a blood-red ribbon trailing in her hair.
       "Shouldn't I call back to the wedding party?" David asked, trying one last time.
       "Has someone been married?" she asked.
       Well, that's settled at least, David thought. She's not from the wedding. Must be just another guest.
       They both sat. David slid his chair a bit farther away, although she was comfortable being close to him. Those bluest eyes pinned him again, and he tensed.
       "Do you come here very much?" she asked.
       How easily she picked up responsibility for the conversation.
       "No," he said. "My first time."
       "Yes, I didn't recognize you."
       David frowned. "Recognize me?" he asked. "Do you come here that often?"
       She smoothed her dark dress. Blue like the sky drifting to night.
       "My father comes often. Now that I'm old enough, he brings me with him."
       "Does he travel? Is he in business?"
       David knew he shouldn't be interrogating the child, but he couldn't feel protective when she was the one in control.
       "He's a writer. He loves it here," she said. "It inspires him."
       She leaned forward.
       "Really, I think it's only because his writer friends come to," she confided. "They talk an awful lot about art and philosophy and religion. They talk even more about the wine in their glasses. I've never seen any actual writing get done."
       David laughed. "So what do you do?"
       "Oh, I love to debate with them," she said. "I used to sit on my father's lap, but now I get my own chair. They think I'm entertaining."
       "You're kidding! You debate about art and philosophy and religion? Do you even know what philosophy is?"
       "Of course. I listen a lot," she said, undaunted. "I learned from them. Besides, they're so busy getting angry they don't realize when they've answered their own questions. I love it when I shock them."
       David chuckled. He had no doubt.
       "My name is Caroline, by the way."
       She smiled, and it was the most bewildering thing he had ever seen.
       "I'm David."
       "Glad to meet you David," she said, and they shook hands. A chilly formality. When they broke apart, they glanced at their hands for a few moments. David cleared his throat.
       Caroline recovered first.
       "So what do you think of this place?" she asked. "It being your first time and all."
       "Very impressed. There's something very...odd about it. It's one of the most striking places I've ever been in."
       "I know," she said, nodding. "I'll tell you a secret."
       The corner of his mouth tipped. "Yes?"
       "I often dream about this place."
       "You do? What about?" he asked. "Trips with your father?"
       "No. Not like that." Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, and she breathed deeply. "More like this. Empty rooms in the evening. Roaming the halls. Quiet. Like it's just my own."
       Free of her attention, David adjusted himself more comfortably in the chair.
       "My father dreams about the gardens outside," she said. "Isn't that strange?"
       David thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose each person takes away something secret, something special for themselves."
       "Something special for themselves.... You sound like my father," she said.
       Her eyes dropped back down to him. David stared back, unwavering. When his conscience caught up to him, he would chastise himself for beginning to fall in love with a child.
       "I'm not a writer," David said.
       "Are you sure?"
       "Well, I have written a little. A long time ago. It was awful. Believe me, it was a good thing I stopped."
       "It's never a good thing to stop," she said.
       Caroline certainly had an uncanny knack for slamming the door on an argument. David pitied her father's friends.
       Caroline propped her elbow on the chair and rested her head on her palm. David uncrossed his legs and leaned back.
       "So where is your father?" he asked. "Were you alone very long before you came in here?"
       Her eyes tipped down, and for the first time, a gravity hardened in her face.
       He regretted his words.
       "I don't know how long I've been here," she said softly. "It mustn't have been more than a few minutes. But it seems...very long."
       Her words dragged slower and slower, until they stopped.
       "Caroline? Are you alright?"
       David edged forward. His heart was thumping.
       "Caroline?"
       Those same breathtaking eyes registered something new.
       "Is something wrong?" he asked.
       He saw calm arise. Reassurance.
       "I thought I was dreaming just now. But I'm not."
       She wasn't making sense.
       "I'm glad I found you, David."
       "I am too," he whispered.
       "Can I show you something?"
       "What?"
       "My most favorite place. Come on!"
       Now excited, she slid from the chair and spun past him. Her dressed billowed and brushed him.
       Not nearly over his scare David hesitated.
       "Wait! Where are you going?"
       She had already hurried from the room into the parlor. He hauled himself out of the chair.
       "Caroline! Wait!"

On to Part 5
Back to Part 3

short story
fiction

Twilight

While dawn's fire lay frozen beneath the land, twilight crept down from the air. I watched night retreat into the trees where it could be strong. But as the light grew, night's power drained, and it sank back into the Earth where it was born.

Caroline, Part 3 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       David descended a few quick stairs into the dining room. It was narrow, stretching the length of the inn. And empty. Beyond tall windows, bushes in the courtyard glowed with squares of inside light. He counted his steps for no good reason.
       On the other side, he turned into an open parlor. Familiar, he thought. Perhaps the room in the photograph. Chairs angled into little circles, no longer filled.
       Through a last doorway, he spied the bar.
       "Here we are," he muttered.
       Inside, everything darkened into a brooding blur. The carpet. The curtains. The fanning wallpaper. But not the dazzling light behind the bar. Its shine seized all attention. Where it shattered on the liquor, countless colors sprayed, each a unique slice from a thousand tiny prisms.
       David took a stool, and moments later, soft footsteps joined him in the room.
       "Evening, sir."
       "Hello," David said, turning. "Great timing. How are you this evening?
       "Fine, sir. Fine. I apologize for the short staffing tonight."
       David smirked. "You look tall enough to me."
       The bartender chuckled and shook his head.
       "Sorry," David said. "I can't help myself sometimes. I do appreciate you for breaking away for a minute, though. Got a rowdy bunch back there?"
       "They're well enough behaved," the man said, taking his position behind the bar. "For now at least. What can I get for you?"
       "Normally I'm a gin and tonic man, but the gentleman at the front desk mentioned you have some interesting cocktails."
       "Yes. Our vintage cocktails are very popular."
       The bartender flipped open a drink list and extended it in the same motion.
       "Any recommendations?" David asked, not looking.
       "For a gin man, absolutely. I have just the thing."
       David smiled. "I'm in your hands."
       David tried to watch the ingredients, but he found his mind wandering. Far off, individual voices in the wedding party pressed to the surface, but fell back before they emerged.
       Ice clattered in the shaker. A quick rhythm. Then, the bartender strained a concoction into a glass. He slid it to David, who sipped and let it play on his tongue.
       "That's a fine drink," David said after swallowing.
       "Thank you. One of my favorites too."
       David tasted it again.
       "Shall we go with that one, then? Or would you prefer something else?"
       "No, no. This is very good."
       "If you don't mind, I'll let you have some privacy then," the man said. He motioned over David's head. "They'll be raiding the bar if I'm not back right away."
       He started to leave.
       "Whoa. What do I owe you?" David asked.
       "Our compliments, sir. For our short, um, under staffing."
       "Really? Thanks. I appreciate that. But let me give you something at least."
       "No, it's my pleasure. I'll try to stop back again in a little while."
       "No need," David said, "I'm set. Thanks anyway."
       The bartender wished David a good night and circled behind him. David watched him leave in the mirror. His outline melted away in the distant doorway.
       David drank again and enjoyed the heat in his throat. The sound of the crowd swelled to greet the returning bartender.

       Long minutes passed. David's gaze strolled around the room. In such muted light, details seemed uninspired. Drab. For a while, he stared into his own eyes in the mirror. No clear thoughts unfolded as he did. Just fascination. And curiosity. He stopped when he no longer recognized the face.
       More of the hour ticked away. David slid his drink along the bar, back and forth, back and forth.
       His mind was drifting towards sleep when the feeling struck him.
       A warmth. A breath of fragrance. He turned and started. A touch of his drink darkened on his pants. Someone had slipped into the room behind him.
       He didn't register her face at first. Only her eyes. He stared down at them. Blue as the winter hills before dawn. Brilliant as candles shining in dark windows.
       "My God," he whispered aloud. And it wasn't just the gin talking.
       The small face smiled, a work of art in flesh. Long sweeps of hair, nearly black, framed the breath-taking portrait. David guessed the girl to be around eight or nine.
       For several seconds, David was speechless. At last he managed to ask, "are you from the party?"
       She stood motionless, giving no indication she heard him.
       Never had he seen eyes like those in a child. Anchored onto him. Penetrating. Although impossible, those eyes were sharpened by many, many years.
       Indeed, she was dressed for a party.
       "Are you looking for someone?" David asked.
       Her lips parted. David's breath caught in expectation of the voice.
       "My father left me here," she said. "For a little while. He'll be back soon."
       An Earthy voice. Not the slightest apprehension.
       Didn't sound right. "You're alone? Maybe we should go find him."
       "He's coming back."
       Between the drink and the atmosphere, the moment suddenly didn't sit like reality. He tried to untangle his confusion.
       "Could I stay with you?" she asked. "For a few minutes?"
       "With me?"
       Her voice dropped. "I'd rather not wait alone," she said.

On to Part 4
Back to Part 2

short story
fiction

Meme from Mac

I've been tagged by MacAllister Stone for a meme. Here are the rules:

1. Go to your archive.
2. Find the 23rd post.
3. Find the 5th sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in a blog entry along with these instructions.
5. Tag 5 other people.

I thought I'd spice it up just a little. So I'm changing rule #4. No one's gonna stop me, right?

4. Imagine someone says this sentence to you in a long, long line at McDonald's while they're trying to un-jam the jumbo cup dispenser. Write your reply.

Okay, here goes:

Man with wad of chewing tobacco: "He didn't reach for the sweatshirt folded on his dresser."

Me: "I'd say not! A crew neck wouldn't blow a hole in a burglar like THAT!"

Let's see, whom shall I tag? I tag the first five people who are overdue to post and could use something easy.

Cemetery Symbolism: Cross and Crown

Victorian cemetery art incorporated elaborate symbolism to convey the hopes and sorrows of those left behind.

Cross and Crown: Symbolizing the eternal reign of God and everlasting life in Heaven (Christian).

Inscription:
In Memory of
James M. Dorlan
Born
March (unreadable)
(tombstone appears broken and reset in the ground)

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Caroline, Part 2 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Back to Part 1)

       David circled into the lobby. A young man, probably in college, stood behind a mammoth desk--a period piece as he had informed David at check in.
       "And how is your room, sir?"
       "Amazing," David said. "You've done some impressive work here."
       "Thank you, sir. We take a great deal of pride in the restorations."
       "I can see that," David said, and as if to prove he really could, he paused to absorb all of the craftsman touches.
       The doors to the summer night swept open and two couples strolled into the lobby. Laughing quietly, they crossed the center of the room to a doorway on the other side. David watched them. A strange thread of unreality wound through their hushed tones.
       "We have a lot of weddings here," the clerk said. "A lot of receptions."
       "I understand why. I don't think I've seen a better spot."
       A puff of outside air from the doors overtook David. Sweet honeysuckle. So potent, it left a taste.
       David wandered toward a wall of dark windows. Outside, huge maple trees cast deeper shadows than the surrounding night.
       "For the guests?" David asked, pointing to a small alcove. A Morris chair reclined among several cabinets of bookshelves.
       "Help yourself, sir."
       David scanned the titles. The old leaded glass in the doors of the cabinets smeared the print.
       "We're careful to stock books from the height of the inn's popularity," the clerk said. "Before radio and television, we hosted many orations and literary meetings. A steady stream of writers and artists sat in these same chairs from 1900 through the early thirties when the inn closed."
       David glanced up at the brown and white photographs framed over the bookcases. Men in casuals hats. Sun gushing in the windows. A speaker he didn't recognize.
       He clicked the latch and released the stale air of a cabinet. A row of small magazines caught his attention. [The Philistine]. He took the nearest.
       "Those are delightful," the clerk said. "I've read many myself. Essays. Diatribes. The advertisements are the best. The public was much more literate back then, don't you think?"
       David stopped on one for [Anheuser-Busch's Malt-Nutrine]. The clerk wasn't kidding. David recalled that advertisements are written for 6th grade reading level. On those pages, David saw advanced placement English. Maybe even college credit.
       "Wow," David said. "This wouldn't stand a chance now. I see millions of thumbs flipping to the next channel."
       "Kind of sad, isn't it?"
       "Yes," David said, suddenly experiencing true sadness. "It is."
       He closed the tiny magazine and returned it to it's protected place. When the glass was resealed, he felt safer. Things like that cabinet were traps. They could steal a piece of the person. Drown them in a lost age. Some souls forever harmonize with a time other than their own.
       "Is there anywhere I might get a night cap?" David asked.
       "Well, we have a small lounge through the dining room, then to the left. But we're a bit understaffed this evening, sir," the clerk said. "The bartender is with the wedding party at the back of the inn."
       David nodded.
       "Let me do this for you, though. I'll call back and ask the bartender to come to the lounge for a few minutes. Let him get you set up, then you can relax in the quiet. I'll check in on you later."
       David smiled. "Thank you. I really appreciate that. Through the dining room and to the left?"
       The clerk already had the phone in his hand. "Yes, towards the front of the inn. And be sure to look at the cocktail list. We've resurrected a few of the old mixes. Prohibition killed some of the flair back then, I'm afraid."
       David moved to the same doors where the couples had disappeared. "Thanks again. You have a good evening," David said.
       "And to you, sir."
       God, David thought, I could die in a place like this.

On to Part 3

short story
fiction

Forest Snow

Secretive summer sleeps beneath
Openness dried and withered growth
Silence entranced in the swelling storm
Swallowed by pattering waves of snow.

Caroline, Part 1 (Fiction)

       David nestled the last of his clothes in the drawer, then slid it shut. He stepped back. Perfect. His presence barely showed on the suite.
       He pulled a chair at the sitting table in the next room and hunkered under a lamp. It doused the walls with rich light. Orange light. The entire inn glowed with the same toasted hues. Mission style architecture had that quality: rugged brown oak and straight lines, leaded glass lamps with canyon colors. Every ember of atmosphere crackled with warm firelight. It soothed the spirit and slipped a leather book in your hands. David gladly succumbed.
       Spreading his papers, he began practicing for his presentation. Rows of statistics. Pie charts with too many slices. Ridiculous. He flipped to the raw data. More ridiculous. Making money or losing money, that's all they cared about. Anyway, he hadn't treated himself to a historic inn to spend his evening on work crap. He salivated when he saw the library and the sitting rooms a short time before. A few of those secluded corners might've escaped the last century.
       A little company might be nice too.
       Rising, he retrieved his sports coat, passed the dark television, then slipped out into the halls and sharp staircases. Just outside his door, he bumped a rocking chair. Curious. Placed as if someone awaited him.
       David didn't bother to stop it. He walked on. And the sleepy motion swayed long after his footsteps had sunk into silence.

On to Part 2

short story
fiction

Remember: Robert and Minerva King

We cling to the enduring strength of stone to fight the fear of being forgotten.

So please take a moment to remember:
Robert K. King
Died August 2, 1886
Aged 71 Years
Minerva H.
His Wife
Died March 22, 1913
Aged 93 Years

Such a grand stone for a simple place among the corn. Gothic arches in a land of barns and calloused hands. Who were the Kings? For in their memory, their monument truly reigns.

(Unmarked rural cemetery, Wayne County, Pennsylvania)

Excerpt from "Caroline"

       David slid his glass over the bar. Back and forth. Back and forth. The lazy sound wandered the room.
       In a distant corner of the old inn, a wedding reception swelled and quieted over the passing hour.

       David's mind was drifting when the feeling struck him. A warmth. A breath of fragrance. He turned and started. A touch of his drink darkened on his pants. Someone had slipped into the room behind him.
       He didn't register her face at first. Only her eyes. He stared down at them. Blue as the winter hills before dawn. Brilliant as candles shining in dark windows.
       "My God," he whispered aloud. And it wasn't just the gin talking.


From "Caroline," a new short story series I will be posting to kick off the new year!

(Picture from my winter adventures Dec. 31st. Wayne County, Pennsylvania.)