fiction
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I’m writing a book. My daughter is baking and selling bread. My brother runs a wood shop, making wooden blocks for children.
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My brother visited over Thanksgiving. He drove, sorry, he sat in a self-driving Tesla and never touched the steering wheel from Utica, New York, to Bartlesville. He brought apples from a local orchard. They were perfectly ripe—crisp, sweet, juicy. It made me think that maybe our lives should be considered this way. Ripe means ready…
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Excerpt from the book Seven Hills: This story is fiction, though it feels true. One of my favorite childhood pictures shows me dropping a dime into an offering plate at Church. Mom, Dad, and my older sister watch solemnly as an unknown man awaits my gift. I always wondered if I plunked the coin or…
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I’ve been hanging out at the office with Emery, my 10-month-old granddaughter. She comes to work with her mom. Emery makes me laugh, and I make her giggle. She is a lousy employee; she sleeps a lot and doesn’t get much work done. On warm, sunny days, we walk around the pond next to our…
Bespoke 