I see the crow and quickly look away.
I hear the incessant “caw, caw, caw” and I want to place my hands over my ears and hum the words to a happy song. But nothing comes to my lips.
The crow is black. The crow is foreboding.
Is the crow death?
In the river bottoms, the crows come in packs, swooping low over the harvested fields, the broken stalks of corn like the limbs of war dead, half-in, half-out of the grey, boot-sucking muck.
A murder of crows is what they call that pack of black that fills the fading…
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“I dreamed of you in spectacular color.”
Carl clutched his backpack to his chest with both hands. He took a step forward. Maybe he was aware of the others. Maybe not.
“I dreamed of you in this very moment.”
She raised her eyebrow. Seeing Carl was not unusual. Hearing from Carl was quite unusual.
“You were making me a biscuit. One of those hot buttered rounds where the strawberry jelly is so thick it leaks and stains the sides. Heavens.”
Jasmine put a slice of cheese and a wedge of ham between the folds of biscuit and wrapped it in…
In the summer of 1978, I discovered RC Cola and baseball.
I guess the soda that was a cheap knock-off of Coca-Cola had always been around, as was baseball, but that summer I consumed as much of both as humanly possible.
The reason? The collector cans that featured the RC logo and its slogan “Me and My RC” on one side and a photo of a Major League Baseball player on the other with his signature, stats and other pertinent information, such as was he right-handed or left-handed.
The collecting became an obsession and the stack of royal blue 12-ounce…
I was recently asked to be a featured member of the Charlotte Writers’ Club. The feature, dubbed Meet A Member, runs in each monthly newsletter and is a great way to learn more about the fellow club members.
I’ve been a member of the Charlotte Writers’ Club for nearly two years now and have found it to be a great resource as I venture into the world of fiction writing and freelance work.
One of my favorite benefits of being a club member are the monthly programs by published authors taking on such topics as “Maintaining Suspense in Your Writing”…
Students at North Charleston High School in the Lowcountry of South Carolina often gaze at the wall of awards principal Henry Darby has amassed over the past 40 years. He’ll ask them what they believe is the greatest honor among the stack of plaques. They never pick the starched white shirt hanging in a box.
“It reminds me of my humble beginnings,” said the North Charleston native. “It’s not the height that you reach, it’s the depth that you come from.”
The shirt came from cloth his mother gathered from an area dump. Florence Darby took the fabric home, boiled…
As the sun’s rays penetrate the chilly fog of late winter and begin to warm the earth, now may be the time to reinvigorate your creative zest and resume your writing.
Now 13 months into the first draft of my first novel, I’d recently found myself at an impasse. The dreaded writer’s block mirrored the gray sky from which cold rains fell in mid-February here in the Carolinas. Gloom. No color in my prose. The white blank page a carbon copy of the snow that lingered in the Appalachian highlands.
On the final Tuesday of the month, the sun finally…
When you’re 13 years old and you stare down Dyer hill, the snow still falling, your gloved hands wrapped around the sharp metal blades of your wooden sled, your heart is going to race.
Five slippery steps on the thin white powder, the ice-covered blacktop lurking below, then throwing the Western Auto Flexible Flyer out before you, the thump of your chest landing on the wood and then speeding head-first into a cold wall of winter.
Before you leap, you sneak a peek.
The girl with the freckles, the one who can throw a football farther than any boy and…
The Barren River runs fast here, slicing through the forested green gorge, its metallic blue waters dotted with white outcroppings of rock, like a lost field of mushrooms dropped down among the foothills of western Kentucky.
College students come here where the river plunges twenty feet over the falls, the mist from where the waters splash off the limestone below creating cool wet clouds that rise and hover, leaving tiny wet droplets on your tanned skin.
Seeking space from exams and empty wallets, eighteen-, nineteen- and twenty-year-olds come to the Locks to sip cherry hooch mixed with pure grain alcohol…
Most just shake their head and walk away. “No, no, no.”In fact, they are so adverse they’ll suddenly stop and turn, telling me their disdain is so great “I pay $50 every two weeks just so I don’t have to do it.”
They cannot comprehend my love of mowing my grass.
There’s something about sitting astride the bright green John Deere and hearing the motor catch when you turn the ignition. The slight shudder as the sharpened steel blade engages, in its wake the spring smell of fresh-cut fescue.
Maybe it’s about being in control. I follow the same path…