Remy walks into the old Victorian's entryway shaking twilight frost from his trenchcoat. His movements are awkward as his right arm is immobilized in a sling. He does the best he can with his left hand to brush away the frosted condensation.
Usually, The Well-Read Woman's Literary Sofa Society meets every Thursday from 7:00-9:00 in the basement of A Darn Good Yarn: Craft Supply and Bookstore. But tonight three of its four members have arrived fifteen minutes early to discuss the membership of the most recent addition to their select circle.
While we waited on the tow truck, we flipped through the convention's schedule for the hundredth time that week, checking to make sure we were each going to the right panels at the appropriate time. There was no way we were going to miss the talk on adapting comics into films. There were some tremendous names attached to that panel.
Oscar folded the last of the clean towels, and stacked them by the front counter, then resumed his post behind the check-in computer. Through the entrance doors, he watched two men talking and laughing as they approached, and he cued up what he thought of as his most reliable smile and head nod.
Writing is a strange and giant beast, that I sometimes lose sight of the simple fact that it's supposed to be fun. I'm looking forward to what kinds of stories will happen over the next 31 days. Who's with me?
Currently the journal's taking submissions for its third issue (in fact, this weekend it'll be free to submit), and if you have a piece of fiction or nonfiction, a poem, or a hybrid text of some type, and a connection to Wisconsin's Chippewa Valley you should send it on in.
America, I think, is about poor people playing music and poor people sharing food and poor people dancing, even when everything else in their lives is so desperate, and so dismal that it doesn't seem that there should be any room for music, any extra food, or any extra energy for dancing. And people can …
They slept under a tree near the overpass, side by side on top of August's plastic sheet. Kirsten slept fitfully, aware each time she woke of the emptiness of the landscape, the lack of people and animals and caravans around her. Hell is the absence of the people you long for (144). --Emily St. John Mandel, Station …